


Evie, A Bard!

by Ophiel



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, F/M, POV Alternating
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-02
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2018-09-27 22:04:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 52,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10053431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ophiel/pseuds/Ophiel
Summary: When you're the daughter of Philliam, A Bard!, there are only so many jobs that make sense. Rather than pursue her father's path in questionable yet well-selling anthologies, Evelyn decided a future as an Orlesian Bard would be better suited to her. Why bother with cutting wit when cutting blades were so close at hand, right? What she lacks in turn of written word, she makes up for with juggling, knife-throwing and bawdy jokes about the Dowager and the tiny harpsicord player. But she doesn't just seek to entertain and spy for coin. Evelyn is a woman seeking answers, and a man - because who isn't - and she would wager the Inquisition is the fastest path to both, and wager high.Dedicated toTheWinterWren, without whom, I would have given up on this fic and character entirely.





	1. Sometimes, Life is Shit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheWinterWren](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWinterWren/gifts).



Footsteps crunched in the snow, quick and rapid towards the village of Haven. The snow was stained green by the sky above, which was roiled by the abominable Breach that had thrown the whole world into madness. It spun like a maleficent eye, watching the village of Haven, glittering upon the frozen lake and drowning out all moonlight.

_“Who goes there?” Lantern light spilled over the road verge as a lantern was raised in the darkness of the East Road out of Redcliffe. The scent of manure and excrement was putrid in the air as the tumbril rolled to a stop on the dark road. The ox grunted, its tail swishing away at the flies that plagued the wagon._

_The wagoneer had carried the muck to Redcliffe farms from the village for over twenty years. It was a job as dull as the wagonload of shit he carried, but it put food on the table and stopped the missus from bothering him. In all his years, he had not experienced anything strange when the wagon was full, well, except that one time when what he thought was a pile of manure turned out to be an undead from the castle._

_That was years ago, and now the sky had apparently exploded thanks to the mages or something or other. He had no idea, news never reached him. All he knew was word that the Arl had buggered off from the castle and the mages and templars were insane. Though few men - mage, templar or otherwise - bothered a honeywagon driver, he wasn’t taking chances._

_Fools did not live long in these parts._

_He reached under his seat. The heavy cudgel grated the wooden wagon seat as he drew it out. The ox grunted again and shuddered, shifting on her feet nervously. The wagoneer felt the wagon itself wobble suddenly from the back of the wagon. He swore and hopped off, holding lantern aloft and cudgel at the ready. With his ox nickering in increasing nervousness, he crept around the back of the wagon. His lantern light fell onto the road behind him. Manure had fallen off the wagon and scattered behind him. He inspected the pile on the cart._

_Was it just him, or was the pile a little smaller?_

_Then it came, a hissing scream in the air that tore through the night. The ox grunted and shifted in her straps as the wagoneer spun around at the sound. Then the night seemed to close in around him, green from the sky making the darkness darker and his lamp light weaker. He backed up against the truck as the air started to chill, deathly cold seeping into his veins._

_The man shivered. What manner of darkness was this? What had those damn mages done?_

_Then the darkness leapt at him, screaming with the dark heart of winter. He cried out and flailed with his cudgel blindly in the dark as the screaming abruptly ceased. “Fuck!” he heard as his cudgel glanced off something soft._

_The wagoneer was knocked sideways and sent rolling in the darkness as his lantern tumbled to the ground and flared as the oil burst into flame on the ground. The ox grunted in panic and bolted, taking the wagon cluttering along with it. The wagoneer could hear scuffling behind him, and another deathly cold scream. Something wet and burning splashed on him as he crawled away on hands and legs, his eyes adjusting to the dull green light from the sky. He gripped the cudgel as he turned around on the ground, his shoulders digging into the wall at the side of the road. Something raised its bony hand to him in the dark, clawed fingers reaching for his heart. He swung at it, knocking it aside with a satisfying crack of breaking bones._

_The shadow screamed again, the sound of it cutting through him and its mouth showing row upon row of teeth, its face torn in a rictus of sorrow. Then, something seemed to spring into vision behind the creature. Hot dark blood sprayed from the creature’s face, the tip of a dagger glinting in the green light protruding from between the space where the creature’s eyes should be. The creature shook, twitching and then froze as it burned away into green fire, revealing a slight figure in a hood beyond._

_“Maker!” the man screamed and a hand - a human one - grabbed his._

_Someone pulled him to his feet and started to run with him following, drawn hooded cape flaring out behind the small figure and the smell of excrement trailing distressingly from them. “Run!” said that voice again, dragging him along - behind her. That could only be the voice of a woman. The wagoneer asked no questions and ran, following the smell of his own wagon. Behind them was another scream in the dark._

_The woman turned and looked over her shoulder. Her young, rather pretty face was smeared with excrement. “You were in my wagon?” the man exclaimed._

_“When you need to get out of town in a hurry, you take what you can find,” she said, stopping and handing him a pointed dagger. She looked up at him, large blue eyes glinting in the dark. “Your ox can’t have gotten far - just run after it, I’ll try to hold them off. Thanks for the ride, by the way.”_

_“What--” he began and another shadow swooped by in the dark._

_“Go!” she pushed him away._

_He did not look back. He ran as fast as his feet could carry him. He found his ox down the road, half the wagonload spilled across the grass where it has skidded to a halt. He climbed up and brought the reins down on the ox’s back hard, sending her thundering down the road. The screams tore the night behind him, but did not follow._

_He was safe._

The figure walked through the snow now, her clothing still browned with unknowable effluences. She had taken effort to scrape off whatever she could once it all… dried. Her silken harlequin clothes and pantaloons were completely ruined, and she had lost her mask long ago. It was downright cruel. That mask had been expensive. On the other hand, her sense of smell had thankfully shut down - probably forever. It was hard to leave the service of the Arl of Redcliffe, but the people shooting fireballs incentivised her departure pretty well. The mages had… been difficult in Redcliffe. Not that it mattered with what the Arl did after that.

She was fast approaching the gates of Haven. The gates were closed. There were tents in between her and the gates. There were snores. Soldiers. With everything that went to shit, she was surprised there was anyone left here. She walked past the tents and to the gates, glancing briefly at a Templar standing by the gate. The Templar watched her, her eyes narrowed, the green light reflecting off her burnished armor and casting a pall on her skin. Evelyn flashed her a smile and a florid bow. She may be covered in shit, but one should never stop putting on a show. The Templar smiled slightly, but said nothing.

The guard at the gate was less amused. He wrinkled his nose when she approached. “State your business,” he said.

“I am here to report to Sister Nightingale,” she said. “I’m Evelyn Wren. I was summoned.”

The guard looked her over from head to toe, though that didn’t take long with her being three inches shy of five feet tall. “Have you any papers to prove it?” asked the guard.

The cold wind blew, making her shiver. She sighed and reached into her coat, pulling out a browned parchment. She held it out to him and was mildly delighted to see him shrink back. “My summons from Sister Nightingale,” she said, holding out the terribly stained parchment.

The guard shrank away from the paper. “I don’t know why Sister Nightingale is summoning clowns,” he said.

“First of all, harlequin,” she puffed her cheeks out as she glared up at the guard. “Second of all, I don’t know why Sister Nightingale summoned me either. But look at me. I am literally covered in shit because I had to steal away in a dunny wagon to avoid the Templars and the Mages roving around the Hinterlands. I rode out buried in shit because the good Sister is not a person you should keep waiting. I hope we can agree on that at least.” She waved the paper in his face, which now had a tint of green. “So might I pass, good sir?”

He seemed to be holding his breath. “Commander’s orders are that none should enter without the appropriate paperwork.”

She sighed and slipped her hood off, her short wavy hair was dark and matted and the smell was distressingly overpowering now. The guard gagged. Evelyn caught the Templar's glance at the guard and her subtle nod. The guard seemed to sigh in relief, and regretted it. “But Sister Nightingale is not the sort to be kept waiting,” he choked and opened the gate.

She beamed up at him and headed in, tucking the parchment into her pocket. The village was not like she remembered. There were more people here, some crammed into beautiful tents, others in plain canvas, fires tugged fitfully by the wind. There seemed to be nobles here. How unsurprising. When you shook the bottom of the old barrels, you do send rats scurrying.

She hurried on to the Chantry as the gate shut behind her. The Chantry’s doors were shut against the night, probably symbolic or something. Eventually, she found Leliana in a tucked away tent among the Inquisition’s quartermaster’s hold.

Leliana must have smelled her before she saw her. “Maker’s breath,” she spymaster looked up from her map. “What happened to you?”

“I certainly hope the Maker isn’t breathing nearby. My smell would definitely offend his sensibilities. Apologies, Sister,” said Evelyn as she bowed. “I had to take a quick exit.”

“Report then.”

“The Hinterlands are in disarray, Sister,” Evelyn said seriously, her blue eyes hard. “The Mages have set up their stronghold in the Witchwood, while the Templars are encamped along the West Road. The civilians are at the mercy of roving bands on both sides - and demons. Lots of bloody demons, some venturing far from the rifts that spawned them.”

“Casualties?”

“Droves.” She reached into another pocket. “I have a message from a Mother Giselle in the Hinterlands. She tends to the sick at the Crossroads. I ran into some trouble and she assisted me.” She placed a stained paper on the crate that served as Leliana’s table. “Sorry it’s a little fragrant.”

“Is there more?” Leliana asked, opening the letter to read it.

Evelyn frowned. “There is. A day after the incident in the conclave, the Arl of Redcliffe left the castle after a visit by a foreign dignitary. It was abrupt. Sudden. Unexpected. The dignitary met Arl Teagan in secret, there were barriers I could not pass. They were magical. When I attempted to break through, something tipped them off and I was forced to fall back. Hours later, I was pursued from the castle.”

Leliana crossed her arms thoughtfully. “You could not get past the barriers?”

“Not at all. Sound seemed to dampen beyond the barriers. I could hear voices when I touched them, but they were… odd. Strange. Like a dream. Then I’d find myself wandering hallways I did not plan to be in. As if I just woke up.” Evelyn averted her eyes. “It was an intrusive barrier. I don’t know how else to describe it. It is a spell I’ve never seen.”

“I see,” Leliana murmured. “Why did you leave your post?”

“It was while I was trying to find my way through the barriers that strange mages attacked me. They hounded me and I fled. I surmised that the meeting did not go well, because by then there was fighting in the castle hallways. Had to hop into a dunny wagon from the crossroads onwards, things got a little hairy when they began harassing civilians. By then, I heard word that the Arl had already gone, retreating back to Denerim with his wife.”

Leliana sighed. “Then there isn’t much else we can do with your appointment in his keep then,” she said. “The Inquisition still needs agents, if you’re looking to extend your contract.”

Evelyn stiffened slightly. “I can,” she said. “You know what I’m looking for. If my work here will make things safer for him…”

“You know we are doing everything we can to end the chaos,” Leliana said. “The Divine wanted peace between Mages and Templars. That is what we want. They Mages should be protected.”

Evelyn nodded slowly. Protected. Truly? With _that man_ in charge of the soldiers? But he was there, in the middle of everything when it all went to hell. And her other leads to find Ehren had dried up since the explosion at the Conclave. Few cared about a single mage when the sky was trying to eat the world. Her lips parted slightly as she drew a breath. “Then yes,” she said. “Let me serve here, though I doubt you’d want me to caper for the amusement of the nobles that gathered.”

Leliana smiled. “Perhaps you might not want to agree so easily. Still, we may find use for your talents. But that is for later. Perhaps you should wash off first?” Her nose wrinkled. “Perhaps wash a lot? Three times? Then report to me at sunrise.”

Evelyn chuckled and bowed her florid little bow. “As you wish, Sister Nightingale,” she grinned.

So she was at the heart of all this now.

Good.

 

+++++

 

While Sister Leliana had been helpful, it occurred to Evelyn that the quartermaster Threnn was decidedly not. She refused to wake up for a start, and when she did, she gruffly thrust the uniform into Evelyn’s arms and promptly went back to bed. Evelyn made an effort to stick her tongue out at her. Still, she felt so much better for bathing, even if the water was not as warm as she would have liked, and her hair took ages to dry by the fire that was used to heat the barrels. She was exhausted, but no one was awake to orientate her or even hand her a sword - not that she needed it, she reflected, strapping on her bodice daggers, boot daggers and wrist garrotte cords. She also did have her two larger blades strapped to her back. That should be enough.

Then, fatigue finally clawing at her mind and muddling her thoughts, she found a cosy corner in the Chantry. No one seemed to be about. The fires crackled as they burned along with the hollow roar of the wind in the rafters. She settled down amidst some sacks stacked in the corner, hidden by shadows. She breathed on her hands to warm them from the cold.

For months, she had been posted to the court of the Arl of Redcliffe. It was a decent posting for decent pay. All she had to do was dance for them, perform her knife tricks, juggle, tell stories… It was easy. She passed information along, of course. Sister Leliana paid her well for it, and Nightingale had information in return. The Divine sought to gather the mages and templars at the Conclave. All the Free Mages were supposed to attend or gather in the vicinity. It would have been helpful to steal away, to search for Ehren.

Her eyes fell upon the candles lit around a statue of Andraste, eyes raised to the heavens, her face blackened by the sooty remnants of the faithful’s prayer candles. Soot was the only thing left of their hope. Evelyn’s jaw tensed. Ehren had prayed. He had prayed until his desire to hope was taken away from him by the Templars. But now he was gone - the Circle at Kinloch Hold having voted for ‘Freedom’. They had abandoned those who would not follow them along Grand Enchanter Fiona’s mad path, and Ehren had gone missing with them.

He must have been told to. He was not in any capacity to say no, or refuse, or send word to her.

She reached under her armor and placed her hand on the small mound under her clothes. Safely wrapped in silk, was his last gift to her. A music box. Her brother had always been cunning with devices. That cunning had aided him in his education at the Circle. He had become a good mage. Perhaps too good. When the Templars’ watchful gaze fell on him, his cunning was his undoing. Her fingers traced the shape of the box. She did not need to hear the song. The mere thought of it brought the notes to mind, each ringing as clearly as if the box had been wound. With the notes falling like rain in her mind, she shut her eyes as sleep wrapped her in its warm embrace.

Ehren had lost the will to hope, but she had not. She would hope for them both.

 

+++++

 

“Lace!”

The voice carried to the entrance of the tent, where the dwarf was waiting. She looked up at the sound of her name and saw someone she did not expect to see. She burst out laughing as the figure approached, walking in the silvery dawn snow. “What a surprise to see the Juggler of Redcliffe herself!” she chuckled. “Traded in your bell coat and bloomers?”

“I thought I’d have a change of pace. Things were going a little to shit back there. Nice to talk to you when you’re not posing like a stablehand,” Evelyn grinned as she joined the dwarf in the tent. She twirled. “Like the uniform?”

“Hey, it’s been good to me,” Lace grinned in return. “You might want to do a bit to take the shine off the metal, though.”

“It’s irking me,” Evelyn said, patting the breastplate ahd hearing it ring. “It’s heavy. How do you move in this?”

“You get used to it,” Lace replied. “You’re here with us permanently now?”

“I suppose so. Otherwise they’ve gone and given me the uniform for nothing.” Evelyn looked at the tent. “Sister Nightingale said she would be here.”

“She’s in the War Room. I take it something’s come up. I saw the Herald of Andraste head in earlier.” The thought of Mother Giselle’s letter came to mind. Something definitely came up.

“I didn’t think the Herald of Andraste walked about. He seems more like a float-on-a-cloud-of-light sort of figure, don’t you think?” The Herald of Andraste? In her efforts for the Inquisition, it was strange to hear that now there was someone supposedly more holy than the Divine. “If half of what they say about him are true…”

“They probably are,” Lace looked up at her impishly, folding her arms. “You’ll like him. He’s tall.”

Evelyn stuck her jaw forward. “Everyone’s tall for us, Lace,” she said. “It’s hard to see a handsome face when you look up and find yourself talking to a pair of nostrils.”

The Chantry doors opened then, and Evelyn and Lace straightened up. Leliana emerged, along with a noble wearing ruffles. They spoke together in quiet tones, and Evelyn could see the familiarity between them. Her eyes, however were drawn to the man in the furs, standing as tall as the Herald he spoke with. Her eyes hardened slightly, then she realized she was visible, and subtly moved behind the tent flap and out of sight, making herself seem small - or smaller - and more unobtrusive. The blond man was one she knew by reputation, and the thought of what he was party to made her blood boil. But the dark haired Herald was one she did not want to meet. That would be bloody embarrassing. The holy Herald of Andraste? Oh how she could laugh.

Leliana parted ways from the woman in gold as she approached the tent. “Let’s begin, we have a lot to do,” she said crisply. Evelyn and Lace stood to attention. She moved past them to the map on the crate that served as her table. “The Herald will beheading to the Hinterlands to meet with Mother Giselle. Based on Evelyn’s report, the area is hostile. Your task will be to head to the Crossroads and make that area defensible. Mother Giselle must be kept alive at all cost. And while you’re there, gather as much intelligence as you can.”

“Understood,” Evelyn and Lace said.

“Gather a forward party, then,” Leliana said. “And speak with Commander Cullen. He has some thoughts of fortifying the crossroads.”

Leliana paused, looking at Lace, then back at Evelyn. “Gather your men, Scout Harding,” she said.

Lace saluted, glanced at Evelyn, and left the tent. A sense of nervousness snaked in Evelyn’s belly. She watched Leliana looking over her map once more.

“I see you have a uniform now,” she said.

“I had to. Whatever I had was… perfumed,” Evelyn replied.

“I will be blunt,” Leliana straightened up from her map. “Do you want to serve in the Inquisition?”

Evelyn tilted her head slightly. “I said last night that I did,” she said. “My thoughts have not changed.”

“You’ve seen a bit more of our Inquisition. What are your thoughts?”

Evelyn smiled faintly. “He pushed me in the pool as a child, and I kicked him in the shins. Forgive me if I see the Herald a little differently from everyone else. But we were never truly that close. I doubt my presence will be a problem.” She paused. “Few know as much about me as you. I’d like to keep it that way.”

“I do know a lot about you,” Leliana chuckled. “And I know what you are looking for. You do know that your desires and the Inquisition’s needs may not always align, do you not?”

Evelyn stared ahead. “I do.”

“Then why join us?”

“You know why,” she said. “My stand has not changed from when we first met.”

“Good. I will do what I can to help you. But your loyalty must never waver. Do you understand?”

Evelyn’s blue eyes met hers. “I do.”


	2. The Blue-eyed Mage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Evie should really not sing. Not ever.

Cullen trudged up the stairs from the gates of Haven. The village was quiet, many having turned in as the snow began to fall in earnest. His eyes were sandy from lack of his sleep, and as expecting, his head was throbbing. It had been a long, long day. Captains meetings, inspections of the troops, intelligence briefings - these days he lifted a quill more often than a sword. He turned towards the Singing Maiden, the sound of voices and lute music spilling out from the windows with the golden lamp light. He had missed dinner with the troops and he was sure the mess hall would be closed by now. Besides, Flissa made a stew to be eaten with these dough dumplings he loved. 

It reminded him of home. 

No time for such thoughts. There were a thousand things to do. A quick meal, then. With extra dumplings. He sighed and pushed the door to the tavern open, the voices dimming a little before rising again. The place was packed, tables full as Maryden crooned away with her lute. There was a decent mix of mage robe and Templar armor, too. No one was actively killing each other at this point of time. He took whatever successes he could find. He could see Rylen across the room, sitting at a table playing cards with a group of Captains. At least someone was getting along with the men. 

Flissa waved at Cullen. “A bowl, Flissa,” he said as he walked up to the bar. 

“And you want more of my dumplings?” Flissa smiled archly at him. 

“Sure,” Cullen said, busy unbuckling his sword and leaning it against the bar. Two at the bar looked at him nervously. Cullen ignored them. A flagon was placed in front of him and he took a long sip. Spiced ale. He sighed. For the moment, headache notwithstanding, he felt content.

The two troops were still staring at him. Cullen did not look up from his ale. “As you were, men,” he said. The two nearly fell off their chairs saluting, then they scurried away to another part of the tavern. Cullen watched them go, suddenly finding himself alone at the bar. 

His eyes ran over the crowd, and saw one soldier watching him with a steady stare from a table across the tavern. There was no hostility, just a watchfulness. The kid was probably barely sixteen given the size he was. Cullen shook his head and turned away as a bowl was placed on the table. He started to eat, wrapped in a little cocoon of… nothing. Maryden had even stopped playing to take a break, which he was grateful for. The sound of idle chatter washed like waves upon the shores of hearing.  

Then the sound of a drum picked up, a little heart beat of a tune. The room quietened to the unfamiliar sound of someone other than Maryden. Cullen glanced over his shoulder at the young soldier who had met his eyes. It looked like a scout, a young woman with short dark hair. She sat upon a high bar stool at the other end of the Tavern where Maryden often played, beating a drum upon her lap with palms that flashed in the light of the hearth. Off to the side, Maryden stood staring in affront with her arms crossed. He turned back to his food. Then the, scout’s voice rose along with the beating of the drum, a measure like falling footsteps. 

 

_ “The wind was a whisper of darkness, _

_ Winter’s breath upon the land. _

_ Soft sighs in the boughs of the forest _

_ Bent low beneath frost’s hand. _

_ Upon the snow came footsteps, _

_ And clouded bated breath _

_ For the blue eyed mage came searching, _

_ Searching, searching, _

_ The blue eyed mage came searching  _

_ for his love with sunburst hair.” _

 

Talented, Cullen noted as he ate. The Inquisition drew all sorts, it seemed. 

 

_ “She waited for him in the moonlight,  _

_ The farmer’s daughter fair. _

_ Far from the eyes of Templars,  _

_ In a house on yonder glen.  _

_ Under the watchful moonlight,  _

_ They sought a soft embrace _

_ For the blue eyed mage did love her, _

_ Love her, love her. _

_ The blue eyed mage did love her,  _

_ The girl with sunburst hair. _

 

_ Their love did flower in secret,  _

_ O’er seasons joyful blessed.  _

_ When the winter’s chill did find her, _

_ With spring beneath her breast. _

_ And to the Maker he whispered, _

_ His adoration’s plea, _

_ The blue eyed mage did whisper,  _

_ Whisper, whisper, _

_ The blue eyed mage did whisper _

_ For their babe with sunburst hair.” _

 

Cullen watched her now, chewing idly on a dumpling. She suddenly looked right up at him again, her blue eyes calculating, piercing. It was not a friendly look this time. The look of a wolf watching the lamb. Cullen felt his hackles rise at the look, but he did not respond, merely watching in return. 

 

_ “Then cease did her cries in the moonlight,  _

_ No sound of their sweet spring, _

_ White steel did he see in the moonlight,  _

_ As he came upon their glen, _

_ Black silence came from the doorway _

_ There where the Templars stood, _

_ Their blades stained red and awaiting. _

_ Their eyes all cold and awaiting, _

_ In winter’s breath there awaiting, _

_ They knew they’d find him there.” _

 

The beating of the drum was darker, sinister, off tempo enough to jar the ears and fill the heart with unease. Cullen felt the room’s atmosphere change. He could imagine how this story could end. He had been all too often party to it himself. Maker! He abandoned his bowl, and reached for his sword.

 

_ “Then red did he see from the doorway, _

_ In their house on yonder glen.  _

_ Dark red did creep from the doorway, _

_ Red rivers stained the land.  _

_ To the Maker he whispered, _

_ And cursed the silence there _

_ The blue eyed mage stood dying,  _

_ Dying, dying. _

_ The blue eyed mage stood dying _

_ To the dark of his despair.” _

 

The air thickened with her words hanging above them all like a gibbet. His cheeks heated with suppressed irritation as he buckled his sword on. Stupid - stupid, stupid! He rose from the chair as angry murmurs grew around the room, mages and templars sitting a little straighter. 

 

_ “Dark red were the slivers of moonlight _

_ Upon the the crimson lake. _

_ White steel now shrouded in fire, _

_ Like the blades upon their breasts.  _

_ Though frost and flame did defend him _

_ And breathe from his despair _

_ The blue eyed mage was taken, _

_ Taken, taken.  _

_ The blue eyed mage was taken,  _

_ And alone they left her there.” _

 

The murmurs grew to barely hidden jibes, voices carrying over her song. Cullen strode across the room, which seemed to hush and watch him, the weight of all eyes upon him, their ears bound by the tale she sang. She watched him as he approached, her hands never skipping a beat upon her drum that pounded like the heart of war and the storm.

 

_ “Blood mage” the Templars accused him, _

_ Through blood did he beguile. _

_ No spring came forth from his lover, _

_ Only darkness foul and vile.  _

_ See the red scattered moonlight,  _

_ See the flaming glen, _

_ But the blue eyed mage was silent, _

_ Silent, silent.  _

_ The blue eyed mage was broken, _

_ As they raised the sunburst brand--” _

 

He pulled the drum from her hand and silence fell like an axe. She looked up at him with her blue eyes as large and luminously as a kitten’s, and just as vaguely malicious. He wanted to shake her for her stupidity! He stared at her with embers in his eyes. “What’s your name, soldier?” he asked, his voice snapping in the silence. 

She stared at him a moment longer. In the hearth, the burning logs cracked, the sound of it akin to his breaking patience. 

“Scout, sir,” she replied then. “Scout Evie Wren.” She seemed to glow with innocence like the dawn sun. “It’s just a song, Commander,” she said. “Isn’t it?”

He glowered at her. “Captain Rylen, escort Scout Wren to the Chantry. I think we’ve had enough singing for the night.” Rylen stood and walked over. Scout Wren simply sat waiting until the Captain took her by the arm and led her out of the tavern. All the while, her eyes were on Cullen. He saw then just how much shorter than the Captain she was, standing inches below his shoulder. 

The mages and templars watched him, hands so temptingly near their swords, the taste of magic heavy in the air. Cullen set the drum down on the table, where the impact made the skin thrum viciously. “Back to your tents,” he commanded. “All of you. Party’s over. Full inspection at the crack of dawn for all battalions.”

There were groans across the tavern. The chairs scraped over the grumbles of the men who started to file out. Good. If they were annoyed by him, they were thinking less of killing each other. 

Blasted woman!

He waited until the tavern had emptied, leaving Flissa pouting disappointedly at him. “Apologies, Flissa,” he said, taking out some coins and handing them over the bar to her. 

“Still a better profit,” she sighed in resignation. “Replacing tables and chairs after a bar fight is expensive. I’ll send your food to the tent again?”

“Please,” he said gratefully. He bade her goodnight and walked out of the tavern into the snow, his footsteps falling a little more harshly than before. When he reached, the Chantry, Rylen was emerging alone. “She’s in a cell,” Rylen said, his breath misting in the cold. “We took away her knives and picks - such as we could find. And her containment apparatus. And her whistle.”

Cullen sighed. “So, she’s a bard, then.”

“Not a very good one,” Rylen said. “Aren’t they supposed to be secretive?”

“So they are,” Cullen murmured. “She’s under guard?”

Rylen gave him a long look. “Yes,” he said slowly. “She’s under guard.”

Cullen glared back. “It’s been a long day,” he said, a touch defensively. 

“That explains the silly question, then.”

“Thank you, Rylen,” Cullen said acidly.

“They’re under orders not to let anyone in or out,” Rylen added. “We don’t want any accidents, after all. It would cause friction to no end if one of Sister Leliana’s birds got killed, however much she squawks.”

“Poetically put, as always. That will be all.”

Rylen nodded. “Diamondback?”

“I’ll try,” Cullen called over his shoulder as he walked off. 

He found Leliana in her tent, sitting on a crate and reading by lantern light. She looked up at the sight of him. “Commander,” she greeted. “What can I do for you?”

“I happen to have one of your scouts in the cells,” he said, his hands resting upon the pommel of his sword. 

She seemed unsurprised by his bluntness, setting aside her reports. “Thank you for telling me. Who is it?”

“A girl named Evie Wren.”

“I see. And what did she do?”

“She nearly instigated a riot at the Singing Maiden. With a song. Something about a blue-eyed mage made tranquil by Templars.”

“Tsk,” Leliana frowned, her finger tapping the crate she sat on. “The girl is impatient.”

“Impatient? That’s an odd way to describe it.” He frowned. “Is there something I should know?”

Leliana looked at him thoughtfully. “What did she say happened to the blue-eyed mage?” 

Briefly, Cullen told her the story Evelyn had sung. 

“And she sang it to you?” she asked him.

“Sang it to me?” Cullen blinked. “She was looking at me. Perhaps.”

“Then I suppose you must know.” She stood up off the crate. “The blue-eyed mage is her elder brother, Ehren . He was made Tranquil in Kinloch Hold for meeting with a farmer’s daughter. The templars caught wind of this, and slayed the girl. They tried to slay him, but he killed many of the Templars, as her song says. He was sentenced to the Rite of Tranquility through what the Order calls the Kirkwall Procedure. The Suffice it to say, her version of events and what’s recorded in the Templar archives vary greatly.”

Cullen stared at her, feeling the yawning abyss opening up before him. He knew the Kirkwall Procedure. The mages has no defense on the grounds that they were possessed. They had no recourse, no voice. They were guilty because the Templars judged them so. It was a method he had streamlined under Meredith’s orders. And this Wren blamed him. Of course, she did. “And where is he now? Her brother.”

“No one knows. He left with the other mages when Kinloch voted for freedom. Perhaps he died at the Conclave, or yet lit lives with the Free Mages. We do not know. She is searching for him. It is the reason she joined the Inquisition. She’s new to us.”

Cullen frowned. “I cannot have a loose canon damaging morale or instigating friction between the Templars and Mages here,” he said. “If she is searching for him, this is a poor way to do it!” 

“I agree,” she said. “Have you suggestions for discipline?”

“You are leaving this to me?”

“I trust your judgement.”

Cullen sighed wearily and pinched the bridge of his nose. His headache was getting worse. “Counsel her and let her off with a warning. One more misstep and, by the Maker, she’s going to be court-martialled.”

“That is lenient of you,” Leliana noted drily. 

“Everyone deserves a second chance. At least once.” Including him, right? The effect of his years in Kirkwall stretched far, ripples upon ripples in a pond. Yet another reminder… “Also, it is not often the Inquisition finds a Bard in their ranks. She may be useful.”

“Understood,” Leliana said.

 

++++

 

Evelyn sat in the cell, whiling the hours away. It was dull in here, sitting against the bars and humming away. Her guard had been rather resistant to chatter, which was a disappointment.he could pick the lock with the pick she kept in the lining of her shoe, but perhaps it was best to not antagonize anyone further for the time being. 

Okay, maybe that whole thing in the tavern wasn’t a good idea. Maybe a strongly worded note to the idiot in the fur coat would have gotten the message across… but the sight of him had made her so angry… The important thing was knowing that that Cullen bastard got the hint. Him and his treatise on the Kirkwall Procedure. She’d read all about it, that wonderful procedure he streamlined for use across Thedas. Imagine her surprise to see him leaving the Templars for this Inquisition after that. 

Damn the man, and his fur coat too. 

The door at the other end of the cells opened. She straightened up as she saw the familiar figure of Lace approach, though the smile slid from her face when she saw the dwarf’s expression. She winced. “Hello Lace,” she said, having the decency to feel embarrassed as she clung to the bars of her cell. 

Lace stepped into the light of the hanging brazier, her frown fading as she sighed. “What am I going to do with you?” Lace shook her head. “Did you have to upset everyone on your first day?”

Evelyn glanced aside, defiance coiling in her gut. “I wasn’t expecting a certain someone to get so angry.”

“Were you really?” Lace asked, her voice bearing an unexpected steel. “We are trying to show everyone that Mages and Templars can work together. You could have told a different story. What are you trying to do?”

“It’s just a song,” Evelyn shrugged. “It isn’t as if it really happened, right? You can’t blame me for Cullen’s guilty conscience.”

“Guilty conscience?” Lace blinked. “What’s he got to be guilty off? Other than maybe saving your position in the Inquisition.”

Evelyn stared at Lace. “He what?”

“It was his idea to let you off with just a warning,” Lace sighed. “Sister Leliana would have done much worse.” 

“Yeah, that I was actually worried about,” Evelyn laughed helplessly, scratching her cheek sheepishly.  

“Don’t you take anything seriously?”

“I seriously wanted to go with you to the Hinterlands,” Evelyn pouted. “I guess that’s out of the question now that I’m stuck in here.”

“What on earth gave you that idea?” Lace blinked. “You certainly did not make friends yesterday, so this is your chance to make good. We’re all trying to help set things right without you stirring trouble. We’re here to end this chaos. Whatever other reason you joined, you’re one of the Inquisition now. We’re all going to work together. It’s the only way to bring peace.”

Conviction rang from Lace’s voice. Evelyn knew Lace as one of the dwarves in the Hinterlands, often bringing wares to Redcliffe Castle’s court with her father. Lace had always been a wild card, as free and untamable as the summer winds. This was new to Evelyn. Where did this passion come from? Why did it warm from within?

Evelyn nodded. “You’re… right,” she said softly. 

“I know I am,” Lace said. She gestured for the guard to unlock Evelyn’s cell. 

Once the gate was open, she made a beeline to her belongings stacked on a crate. Her hands closed around a small cloth-wrapped box, which she sequestered in her bodice with an inward sigh of relief. 

“Get yourself kitted and meet Vale and Lysette and I at the gates,” Lace said, and headed out. 

Evelyn watched her go as she started strapping on her knives. 

Why did it warm from within, those words of hers?

And why did Cullen, of all people let her off the hook. She would have expected to be chucked out in the snow or some other retribution from the good Sister, not a dressing down. 

Still, what happened to Ehren was inexcusable. She strapped her blades onto her back, tugging the straps vindictively. She was not going to let Cullen’s decisions cause any more pain to mages.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you reached this note, congratulations! Here is a thank you cookie for reading through my fic thus far. If you don't mind, do drop a comment below to let me know you're about. 
> 
> Come on, I gave you a cookie and everything.


	3. Mostly Deep Mushroom

Footsteps disturbed the detritus of the forest floor. In the distance came the unending cry of crows as they feasted upon the corpses that littered the wide basin of the Hinterlands. But in the forests near the mountains, the place was quiet, the air only disturbed by the night breeze that sighed in the trees and the singing of the thrush in the leaves--

Armor’s dull clank tore through the quiet as an arm braced against a tree, a boot skidded on the moist rotten leaves. “Damn!”

“Shh!” Vale hissed as he tried to steady himself on the dewy hillside. “Try not to make noise.”

“Sorry,” Lysette said, regaining her footing. The moonlight dappled through the trees reflected off her armor. “Sneaking is harder than I thought,” she added sheepishly, shifting her grip on her shield.

Another footfall on the dewy leaves of the forest floor sent her foot sliding. She swore again.

A shadow dropped noiselessly from the trees before them. “You both need to quieten down,” Lace breathed, her voice barely audible. “We’ve got trouble. A contingent of Templars coming in from the West. They’re drinking along the way and working themselves up to taking the Crossroads.”

Lysette’s eyes tightened. “They should not be drinking,” she said.

“They should not be coming up to kill mages either,” Vale pointed out drily. “Let’s keep things focused, please.” He looked back at Lace. “Where’s the bird?”

“She’s scouting the Templars,” Lace replied. “We need to hold the Crossroads.”

“A map, if you please,” Lysette said. Lace reached into a pouch and pulled out a folded wax paper map. Lysette set it on the ground. “Commander Cullen said an elevated position for a camp. Lace, can you help with that?”

“We can scout for one, yes. And hold it.” Lace replied. “We know of a suitable site to the South of the Crossroads - elevated enough in the hills.”

“And Vale can reinforce the Crossroads proper with his troops,” Lysette added. “Troops to the East and West. How many Templars?”

“Sizeable, Evie says.”

“Where is that girl?” Lysette sighed in exasperation.

“I’m sure she’ll be fine,” Lace said, a touch of defensiveness in her voice.

“I’m sure she will,” Lysette said. “I’m just not sure she’ll be of any help.”

 

++++

 

The Templars were drunk. The light of the campfire illuminated the barrels that were placed around the camp. Donned in armour, several were dipping their cups into the barrels, gauntlets and all. The smell of ale was heavy in the camp, lingering over the tents with the ever present smell of piss. Evelyn hid in the hill that rose behind the camp, watching the scene and trying not to breathe. From her vantage point among the bushes, she counted about two dozen Templars. They were drinking from a barrel, which was useful. Their watch had ceased, the Templar on guard joining the others at the drink. That made things easier.

To her utter lack of surprise, a woman’s giggle rang out over the camp. Village girls did gravitate to the Templar camps. It was good money, and there was something alluring to being surrounded by strong men in armor. Evelyn could not see the appeal when they stank like she did riding out in a dunny wagon. She wasn’t here to judge. She was here to watch, and take as many of them down as she could. Somehow.

One of the larger Templars sat by the fire, a flagon in his hand and a young woman on his lap. He hadn’t shaved in a week, and his hands were all over the girl, who giggled brainlessly as he pawed at her, one hand down her bodice. Other Templars were with him, none of them shaven, their armour marred by rust spots. Lysette would have something to say about that. The half dozen of them sat around the fire with their leader, their laughter carrying out over the camp as he pulled the unprotesting girl’s bodice down.

Evelyn’s eyes carried to the men around the fire, then to their barrels. There was no time to think. She crept from her place in the hill and as silent as the grave, crept down to the edge of the camp. Once in the shadows of the tents, the grays of her uniform blended her in, her breathing light and silent. She moved low to the ground, her eyes on watch for Templars as she slipped to the shadow of another tent. She huddled by some crates as a Templar rounded the corner, clumping in his armor, his footsteps drunken as another tried to support him. She breathed out only when they vanished into a tent together, and she moved on, her eyes fixed on the barrel.

The feel of dirt was under her hands and knees as she slithered closer. She was at the edge of the firelight now. Any closer and she would begin to cast shadows. She reached into her pouch and pulled out the small sachet she’d made. She picked up a stone and slipper it into the sachet before tying the linen bag closed.

A templar stood to head to the barrel, his shadow cast by the fire as he walked. She slipped her hand into her pouch and drew out a vial. His footstep fell heavily on the dirt, and she broke the vial in her hand, her body fading from view as a chill wrapped around her, clinging to her skin. Keeping low on all fours, she darted out into the Templar’s shadow as he approached the barrel, her shadow in the firelight blending with his as he moved. He came to the barrel and she slipped into its shadow. As the Templar dipped his flagon into the barrel, ale poured from the barrel’s side and pooled around the barrel on the ground. She pulled her hand from the flowing ale and darted back from the barrel. The water would negate her alchemy.

A footstep behind her. She moved her hand just in time as another templar’s foot hit the ground. She dodged another footfall and, keeping the the barrel’s shadow, pulled back further. She was five feet from the barrel now, and her mixture wouldn’t last long. “Bloody cold draughts,” said the Templar who passed her.

Fuck. She saw him dipping a flagon into the barrel, the ale running down the side. She crept forward quickly, keeping her hands from the ale puddles. She looked at the man’s ruddy face. Her eyes narrowed as she picked up a pebble in her fingers. She flicked it at the speaking Templar’s ear. He started, glared at his friend by the barrel and shoved him aside. The other shoved him back. She danced between them as they started to scuffle. A tug at a foot sent them sprawling into the ground.

Ale kicked up at her. The foam sent the cold fading from her skin. She shattered another vial as the templars rolled aside. Shouts rose around her as all eyes were drawn to the drunken brawling Templars. She dropped the sachet over the lip of the barrel and pulled away just as another Templar came around to cheer on the brawlers.

On all fours, darting between legs, she slipped past the lot of them. Her shadow fell on the ground once before she slipped up against the side of a tent and she cold slid from her body the moment her skin touched the tent cloth. She breathed out silently, hidden from view, sweat dewing her forehead and upper lip. The noise from the barrel rose into laughter. She watched them, and saw Templars dipping from the barrel as they cheered the brawlers on.

She crawled away, clinging to the shadows. Now, it was all a matter of how fast that little concoction worked. Then, it was just a matter of… cleaning up. She slipped away to the edge of the camp. From over the noise of the drunken templars, she heard the sudden frightened scream of the young woman, drowned out by laughter.

She froze in the shadows, hesitating. Then, with a shake of her head, she vanished up into the hillside once more.

 

++++

 

It was hard to listen to the screams. Evelyn sat hidden in the bushes, watching the camp. The noise continued even after the brawl was over, but slowly the barrel drained. Then, as the hours passed, so did the noise. Laughter decreased. A wave of snores began to creep up from the camp. The camp began to quieten down, and few Templars moved, even as the woods began to lighten as the silver light of dawn started creeping over the hills.

Fog started to settle in the valley, clinging to the road. With the exception of the whimpers of the girl, the camp was silent now. Evelyn drew her dagger. The fog negated all shadows, radiating the faint glow of the dying campfire. Her feet fell on the ground silently, her dagger’s blade smeared with mud to hide the shine.

She stopped by a tent, listening for noise beyond. Only snores. She pulled up the peg and slipped inside the tent. Two Templars slept on bedrolls, the smell of ale and deep mushroom heavy in the air. Well, mostly deep mushroom. She drew another dagger, and their last breaths sighed from their throats with a barely audible gurgle of blood. She slipped from under the tent cloth, and crept to the next tent, her blades dripping with bright crimson.

Four more Templars were sent to the Maker in their sleep. She emerged, flicking her daggers of the blood, and crept to the campfire. The snores were louder here, Templars sleeping as they fell. Evelyn’s blade slit another throat as she passed, her blue eyes as hard and cold as shards of winter. Blood stained her boots as she stepped over the body of the Templar. She lifted another head of a Templar asleep by the fire, the man snoring as she lifted his chin. She looked down at his face and saw that he was young, his chin barely dusted with a beard.

She shifted her blade in her hand and drew it across his throat. Like Ehren’s child, the Templar would not be getting any older. She lowered the head as he slumped back dead. The bastard was lucky to die in his sleep, unknowing and unafraid. She moved on to the next, carrying on with her grisly task.

She held her blade in her and and moved on to the leader in his rusty armor and unkept beard. Her blade snaked under the man’s beard. Before the edge of her blade could bite into his skin, she heard whimpering. Rousing from her nightmare, the naked figure of the girl sat up, her skin marred by dirt and other effluences of the night before. She started to cry, her bare chest heaving as she tried to cover herself.

She turned and stared at Evelyn, her eyes desperate. Evelyn stared back at her. Then, Evelyn shut her eyes and straightened up. she reached over her shoulder and untied the orange blanket she wore around her armor. She unfurled it with one hand. Crossing over the leader’s sleeping form, she passed the blanket to the girl, who quickly wrapped it around herself. “Get out of here,” Evelyn said softly.

The girl looked up her, turned and fled, crying and heaving into the cold light of dawn. Evelyn watched her go, her heart heavy as echos of the girl’s screams the night before filled her mind. The girl had just woken up from a nightmare, one she could have avoided. It gave Evelyn no joy to listen to her suffering and do nothing. But at least now she could--

The sound of a boot scraping on the dirt behind her thundered in her ears. An arm wrapped around her neck, lifting her clear off the ground. A gauntleted hand grabbed her dagger hand’s wrist as heavy breathing through snarling teeth roared in her ear. “Little bitch!” the Templar growled, lifting her off her feet and choking her. Lights flashed in her eyes as she kicked, lifted off the ground. “I’m going to rip your fucking--”

She lifted her legs and pivoted with her whole body, pulling the man off balance and falling forward with his arm around her neck. She rolled out of his grip, his armor scraping her ears as breath filled her lungs. Flowing with her movement, she hooked the back of her knee on his neck and sent him flipping over, tumbling onto the ground like a falling ironworks. She locked her knees around his neck as she pulled her dagger arm free and twisted the Templar’s arm back, hearing a satisfying crack as the man choked in her grasp. There were rousing bodies around her now. She’d only killed twelve!

She drew her dagger back and slammed it into his eye. He screamed as he died. “Shit,” she hissed.

“You bitch!” a groggy voice called. The Templars around her were rousing. She pulled herself free of the leader and dodged a hand grabbing at her. She grabbed her dagger from the leader’s eye socket as his body twitched in death, and then she  leapt over rousing bodies. Shouts were sounding out now. A hand grabbed her shoulder. She reacted without thought, twisting the Templar’s wrist and throwing him. She stabbed in him the throat and her dagger got stuck. She abandoned it, reaching for another vial in her pouch. The feel of the burned symbol on the cork against her fingers told her what it was. As the shouts of the Templars sounded behind her, she smashed the vial on her chest, and the world stood still, sound hanging in the air as the quicksilver wrapped itself around her body, her skin tingling with bound lightning. She darted away, leaving the camp behind her. She’d done all she could, but she couldn’t kill them all. They were coming now. She had to warn the others.

 

++++

 

The crossroads were coming into view now as she ran. There were shadows moving among the fog. With the quicksilver wearing off from her, Evelyn felt her muscles burning as she ran towards the Crossroads. She could see the soldiers there, wearing Inquisition uniforms. They reached for their weapons when they saw her approaching, but hesitated at the sight of the Inquisition crest on her breastplate. Her bloodstained boots crunched on the earth as she slowed, gulping for breath.

“Lysette? Corporal Vale? Scout Harding?” she gasped. “Where are they?”

“Up at the infirmary. Harding’s at camp,” one said, his eyes were drawn to her boots and bloody hands.

Evelyn ran past them and headed to the Infirmary. There, walking among the wounded, was the familiar form of Mother Giselle. Evelyn hesitated as she slowed and wiped her bloody hands on her breeches. Avoiding Mother Giselle, she saw the gleaming form of Lysette and Vale in his Inquisition armor as they conferred over a map at a makeshift table.

Lysette caught her eye. “Where have you--” the Templar began.

“You have Templars coming,” Evelyn gasped. “A dozen. They’re waking up and were working themselves up to chase me last I left them. Coming in from the west.”

“A dozen?” Lysette exclaimed.

“Well, I’m sorry I couldn’t kill more!” Evelyn puffed her cheeks. “I could only get half of them before they started waking up!”

Vale and Lysette stared at her. “You killed a dozen Templars?” Vale asked, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

“Slit their throats in their sleep,” she said, wiping the sweat from her upper lip. “They were drinking ale and deep mushroom. Well, mostly deep mushroom.” She sniffed. “They’re still groggy now, but they’re coming nonetheless.”

Vale glanced at Lysette, who was looking at her in a mixture of horror and surprise. “I guess that was helpful,” Vale murmured.

Lysette glared at him.

“I’ll get the men organized to the west. We know mages and mercenaries are coming from the east,” Vale said. “With me, Wren.”

Evelyn hesitated, her eyes drawn to the Eastern Road. She paused and looked at Lysette. “If you see a tranquil - black hair, blue eyes - he’s harmless,” she said as she stepped backwards to follow Vale.

“Why would a Tanquil fight us?” Lysette frowned.

“Because they might tell him to,” she said, stepping back.

“Wren!” Vale called.

Evelyn stared at Lysette. “Please - black hair and blue eyes. He’s harmless. Just knock him out. Please!”

Lysette nodded then. “Black hair and blue eyes,” she said.

Evelyn nodded in reply, and turned to catch up with Vale. Obey. She had to. The Inquisition was trying to bring peace, right? He won’t fight though, he’s rubbish with a blade, better with those delicate Tranquil picks. Valuable. No one would ask him to fight. The touched her bodice where the box was. A voice intruded in her thoughts. “What?” she barked.

“Can you slow the Templars down?” Vale snapped, louder this time.

Evelyn looked at the dew-soaked road and at the gathered soldiers watching them. “Yes,” she said, reaching for her vials. “I can slow them down.”

 

++++

 

The Templars came charging up the West Road in their poorly maintained armor, screaming their battle cry as they ran. Their foot steps were not as shaky as Evelyn had hoped, but it would do. They pounded across the soaked road and slowed as the Inquisition soldiers’ bows were raised, their arrow tips alight. Evelyn sighted the puddle as she held a bow. “Fire!” Vale commanded. She loosed her arrow and it sailed along with the others’, fiery comets blinded by the sun that cut through the fog now.

The Templars screamed as they were set alight when the arrows fell. The fire seemed to cling to their skin, crawling over their bodies to consume them. They flailed madly, but drunk with battle, some continued to charge. Evelyn dropped her bow as swords were drawn. She threw a dagger at a charging Templar, one she recognized from the camp as one of the brawlers. He blocked the dagger with his shield, her blade skittering off to the side. She ducked a sword stab to her head and caught his wrist, locking his arm as she twisted it. He screamed, but responded with the training of a warrior. She sidestepped a shield strike, her arm tensing. She slammed her fist into his elbow guard, and she heard the man scream. He swung at her again with his shield and she ducked back, loosening her garotte wire around her wrist.

Evelyn darted under his wild blade swing, and she could see his face pale from the pain as he tried to wield the sword after her strike on his elbow. She let the wire loop free, her feet stepping around the man as she ducked under his arm. Then she spun up around him and looped the wire around his neck. He gurgled as she tugged and braced her knees on his back, pulling the garotte tight with her body weight.

The man choked as he flailed, spinning and grasping at his neck, the ringing of sword against sword loud in her ears. He cried out, snarling in rage as he dropped his shield and reached over his shoulder, gasping at her. She pushed away from him with her legs as he reached from her, tightening the garotte. Then, grasping at his throat, she felt him falling back to slam his weight onto her. She pushed off him as he fell back, and her breath whooshed out of her lungs as she landed heavily.

Evelyn grabbed at a dagger hilt as a hand grasped her ankle. She was swung before she knew it, the world spinning and her universe filled with pain as she rolled across the cobblestones. She gasped as she came to a stop, hot blood filling her vision as it flowed from a wound on her head. The Templar was charging at her, sword raised. She rolled out of the way as his sword came down, sparks flashing in her eyes as the blade slammed into the cobbles.

Evelyn rolled to her knees, her arm arcing over her head as she let the dagger fly. The Templar gasped, and stared at her stunned, his mouth gaping and his chin covered with flowing blood. He reached up blearily, meaty fingers grasping at the hilt sticking out of his cheek. Then his eyes rolled back in his skull and he toppled in a heap.

“To arms!” she heard then, and looked over her shoulder. She could see a familiar form rushing down into the Crossroads, Inquisition sword and shield raised and at the ready. She hissed and turned away, shielding her face from view as the Herald of Andraste ran by behind her, charging at the Templars, followed by a Seeker, a dwarf and an elven mage she did not recognize. She heard mage fire flaring in the air. She did not want him to see her, not that it mattered. It did not take long for him to cut down a Templar.

The moment he came along with the others, the whole tide of battle changed, as the Templars were brought down low. Evelyn hated to admit it, but he was good. Of course he was. The main family had the best tutors. She reached into her pouch for a vial. With the snapping of thin glass, she faded into the shadow of a tree as he turned around, his dark hair plastered to his face with sweat, his eyes flashing blue. She bit her lip and stayed still.

“Mages to the east!” he barked as the last Templar fell to a crossbow bolt to the face. That dwarf was pretty good, Evelyn conceded. “Varric! Cassandra! Solas! With me!”

She felt her heart in her throat as they ran past her. Her voice caught in her lips as she hesitated, her cloak falling from her when she stepped out into sunlight.

“Inquisition! Reform the line!” Vale barked.

Evelyn blinked, looking over her shoulder. Another wave of Templars were coming. Some had held back! Her cheeks burned, her lip stinging as she bit it. She’d spoken to Lysette, right? But _he_ didn’t know. What if--

She looked at Vale, the soldiers forming the line, bows drawn. “Fuck me!” she snarled and ran forward, her fingers closing around her bow.

 

++++

 

The fight was over, and the Crossroads were now under the protection of the Inquisition. After the gash in her head was suitably bandaged, Evelyn had been sent out scouting, which she did not mind since it took her away from the Herald of Andraste. She was beyond tired and her head felt like it was stuffed full of cotton. But she was burning inside, a fire lit within her from adrenaline and blood and her body’s own fatigued poisons. By the time she returned from her recon mission, it was dark and the Crossroads were lit by torches.

Evelyn headed to the camp the Inquisition had set up at the Crossroads. She walked past the troops and headed to Vale and Lysette, who were in discussion over a map on the ground, its corners held down by stones. She saluted when they looked up at her. “No more Templars along the road, except the ones that are dead from last night,” she reported. “The camp is still there, though. It’s fortified, but I gather only a small force still holds it. They’re leaving your men alone, though. I figure they won’t be molested while they bring the bodies from the roadside camp in.”

“That’s good to hear,” Vale said.

Lysette was looking at her thoughtfully. “I find it incredible that the Templars were that intoxicated,” she murmured.

“Well, they shouldn’t be drinking,” Evelyn shrugged, her mind flying on the wings of fatigue. “Andraste is probably angry with them.”

“My men report something else, though,” Vale added.

“Oh?” Evelyn blinked, staring ahead.

“They say the barrel of ale was empty, and there was a powerful odour of deep mushroom.”

“ _Mostly_ deep mushroom,” Evelyn said. “Does it matter?”

"I was just curious as to what it's made of," Vale said. 

“Considering that your orders were just to gather intel,” Lysette crossed her arms."I'd say it does matter."

Evelyn resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “I should have let them be? Maybe more men for the Herald of Andraste to kill?” she asked. “I had the opportunity to thin their numbers, so I did. What’s wrong with that?”

“It could have been dangerous!” snapped Lysette.

“Sorry, I didn’t know I joined the Inquisition to stay _safe_.”

“You should have conferred with us!”

“Should I have sent a note? Maybe a letter? Dear Lysette--”

“Stop it, both of you,” barked Vale, straightening up. “Wren, in future, as far as possible, you will respect the chain of command. Lysette, there are times when the Scouts will act in accordance to the mission’s ultimate requirements. We must be flexible and react where we can and try to trust each other.”

“If she inspired trust--” Lysette began, but paused. She sighed and shook her head. “Forget it.” She looked up at Evelyn. “By the way, there were none.”

“None?” Evelyn blinked.

“Tranquil with black hair and blue eyes. None that I faced.”

Evelyn’s eyes lingered on Lysette, relief washing over her. She hesitated. “Thank you.”

“You’re dismissed, Corporal. Report to Scout Harding in the morning,” said Vale.

Evelyn saluted. She turned away from them and hurried away. She glanced over her shoulder at Lysette, and flinched internally to see the Templar watching her. Evelyn’s footsteps quickened, and she wondered exactly who she was hurrying away from. She didn’t inspire trust, huh? She thought of the song she sang at the Tavern. That was probably it. Damn. But before she could rest, there was one more thing she had to make sure of.

Evelyn headed to the Infirmary, where Inquisition physicians were helping Mother Giselle to tend the wounded and prepare the dead for the pyre. Come the dawn, they would be burned. Evelyn walked among the dead, many laid out on the ground at the edge of the Infirmary with linens draped over them. She checked every head of hair, kneeling beside each corpse and lifting the linen before replacing it. As she knelt beside one, a tug of the linen revealed a messy, bloodstained mop of dark hair. Evelyn felt her heart stop, then hammer in her chest as she pulled the linen back slowly, a pit of dread yawning before her.

The sight of the man’s face made her exhale, her chest heaving for breath. It wasn’t Ehren. She swallowed and turned away, then wiped the back of her hand roughly across her eyes. She lay the linen back. She had to check them all. It was hard. She was letting herself get worked up, he wasn’t here among the dead. He couldn’t be. And yet...

Evelyn stood up resolutely, and moved on to the next corpse.

When her dark task was done, it was difficult to even stand. Emotionally, physically, she was exhausted. But at least she was sure he was not among the dead here. She washed her hands of the dead in a basin by the trough, and then started towards the camp to get her head down.

“You,” she heard.

Evelyn stopped and turned, She looked down at a battered yet familiar face. A girl looked up at her from where she sat on a bedroll. Her straw-coloured hair was combed and washed, her face bruised. The girl from the camp.

“You’re the woman from the camp,” the girl said. “What were you doing there? Did they get you too?”

“No,” Evelyn replied, screams echoing in her mind. “No, they didn’t.”

The girl seemed confused. “What were you doing there?”

Evelyn was too tired for lies. “Slitting throats.”

The girl’s green eyes hardened. “Good. And Bryce? The large one with the beard--”

“Stuck a dagger in his eye,” Evelyn said, her head aching now.

“Good.” The girl’s lips were a thin line of hatred, her eyes hollow amid the bruising. Hollow and dead. “Very good. Thank you. You avenged me.”

The girl’s screams filled the universe now. Evelyn forced a smile and nodded at her. Then, as quickly as she dared, she walked away. She should have done more - something to end the girl’s plight before it escalated. Green eyes so hollow. But what was she supposed to do? Take down the whole camp? Compromise the mission? It was a call she had to make. Hollow and dead eyes. And they were Templars! Bastards who turned away from even the paper thin vows that bound them to their duty. They were a danger who needed to be eliminated.

Her footsteps stilled in the middle of the square, a small figure alone in the torch light. The screaming of the girl echoed across the stars, shaking the earth to the root of the world. Her arms reached up to hold herself as the tears fell, a small figure standing all the smaller for the choice she could not unmake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's coming along, but very slowly. I had given up on this character, thinking she wasn't well made or conceptualized, and thus given up on the story. 
> 
> All it took was one comment when I was at my lowest to encourage me to get back into it, so thank you for leaving your thoughts behind. You never know when it might lift an author's spirits. :)


	4. A Bard and A Templar Walk Into A Bar

Evelyn felt better after a night of sleep. Rising with the dawn, she washed up and managed to get another of those orange blankets that were part of the uniform. They were useful, and warm. Such things were not to be sneezed at in the foggy chill that was common in the Hinterlands. She headed up the hill to the forward camp as the crickets sang in the silvery dawn. The crows flew overhead, but they were always flying here. Useful for messenger birds. She found Lace in the makeshift rookery at the forward camp, where she was tending to the crows. “There you are,” Lace smiled.

Evie yawned. “Good morning, Lace,” she said. “Or should I be saluting or… I’m still getting used to this soldier thing.”

“I think we can let it slide for now,” Lace chuckled as she filled a bird bowl with seed. “I hear congratulations are in order.”

Evelyn reached up to scratch under the bandages on her head. “What for?”

“The Templar camp? Not everyone can take down twelve Templars on her own.”

“Well, technically I cheated,” Evelyn pointed out. “It isn’t as if I challenged them one on one. And the one I did fight threw me half way to Redcliffe castle.”

Lace chuckled, handing her a handful of bird seed. “Being modest?” she asked, gesturing to a cage.

Evelyn stepped forward to fill the seed bowl of a crow as it watched her with one beady eye. “No, I don’t think it’s as great as you’re making it out to be,” Evelyn replied, pushing the sound of the girl’s screams from her mind. She dropped the seeds into the bowl. “And Lysette is angry that I did it. I should have followed the chain of command, apparently.”

“It’s kind of a thing you need to do in the army,” Lace smiled.

“So it seems,” Evelyn sighed. The crow watched her and she reached a finger through the bars to pet the bird. “Got to get used to it. Ouch!” She pulled her hand back, rubbing her finger where the bird pecked at her.

“That one’s grumpy. Commander’s bird.”

“Hah! Because of course it is. Birds of a feather, right?” Evelyn heard a familiar clumping of heavy footsteps coming up the trail. “Hello, Lysette,” she said, turning around.

“Scout Harding,” Lysette greeted as she saluted, sunlight reflecting off her burnished plate and shield. “You asked for me?”

“Yes, I’ve actually got orders for you both,” Lace said, setting down her bag of seeds on the top of a cage. She went to a table with parchment laid out on it. “Sister Leliana has sent word. She needs information on the Free Mages gathered in Redcliffe. You both are to infiltrate the village and assess their numbers and strength. Any information you can send.”

Evelyn stared at Lace. “Us two?” she asked.

Lace was clearly trying not to smile. “You and Lysette together,” she said. “We need a Templar to assess the mages. And Evelyn was stationed at the castle. She knows her way around the village.”

“Alright,” Lysette cut in. “It makes sense. Information on the village. Then report back here?”

“Yes.”

Evelyn was staring ahead.

Lysette glanced at her, then back at Harding. “As Sister Nightingale commands,” she said.

Lace looked at Evelyn. “You alright?” she asked.

“Can I say no to Sister Nightingale?” Evelyn asked.

“I wouldn’t advise it,” Lace murmured.

“Right,” Evelyn murmured. “Then let’s go. Thanks, Lace.” She looked up at Lysette, who stood a head and shoulder taller than she, with a look of slight resignation. “Let’s go then.”

“We’ve no contingency plan for extraction,” Lysette called after her.

Evelyn glanced over her shoulder back at Lysette. “It won’t help.”

 

++++

 

It was never easy, Evelyn thought as the foliage behind her rustled loudly as a branch snapped. “Damn this!” Lysette hissed as her boot slid on the forest floor. She braced herself with her shield. The sun was high overhead now, and the forest was growing warm as the heat of the day cut through the ever-present fog as they headed down a winding path down a hill.

Evelyn stopped and turned to her. “Seriously?” she snapped. “Do you have to trip up every five steps you take?”

Lysette shot her a dark glare. “Don’t start with me, Wren,” she said.

Evelyn sighed wearily. “Just a short way more.”

A gauntleted hand grabbed Evelyn’s arm, and Evelyn tensed before she knew it and stopped herself from reaching for a blade. Lysette turned her around, spinning the smaller woman easily. She stared down at Evelyn, brown eyes boring into her blue. “We’ve been walking for two hours, Wren,” Lysette said. “In the wrong direction - Redcliffe is to the east. Where in the Maker’s name are you going?”

“You’re not ready for Redcliffe,” Evelyn said evenly. “We need to go this way. We can get things we need.”

“ _What_ do we need exactly?”

“Clothes?” Evelyn looked Lysette over. “You stick out like a sore thumb. You’re all shiny and… noble.”

“What?” Lysette blinked.

Evelyn pointed down the path through the woods with her free hand. “I have a cache down this way by an Avaar statue,” she said. “Some clothes, among other things. It’ll be a bit small for you but I think I can steal something of your size from a couple of cottages I know along the way to the village.”

Lysette let go of Evelyn’s arm. “You could have just told me.”

“Actually, I was surprised you didn’t even ask,” Evelyn admitted, rubbing her arm as she continued down the path. “You just followed me. Why did you do that?”

“I figured if necessary, I could hit you on the head and bring you back to the forward camp,” Lysette said evenly. “But only if necessary.”

Evelyn actually laughed. “You could try.”

“Don’t tempt me. I might. But we’ve been ordered to work together for intelligence. For the sake of the Inquisition, I must restrain myself.”

Evelyn grinned. “Do all Templars threaten their partners with hits to the head?”

Lysette glanced at her as she gripped a branch to keep her balance on the path. “Partners?” she asked.

Evelyn sighed. “Yes, I suppose I deserve that,” she murmured and continued on. “Keep your feet on the back of the rocks on the path, not on the top. The hollows behind tree roots work well too. Less fungus on dirt. Less slippery.” She hopped down the path like a mountain goat.  

Lysette lowered her eyes and shifted her foot on the path, treading a little easier. 

  
++++++

 

Evelyn rounded a corner and, through the dappled shadows of the trees, came across a worn and weathered statue. Its features had long since succumbed to the elements, and it now vaguely resembled a huddled child. Streaks of fungus and moss had left gray green tears on its face, falling from a green slimy shroud. Evelyn knelt down at the foot of the statue, unbuckling her breast plate. With the edge of it, she started to dig in the damp earth.

“That’s not what the breastplate is for,” Lysette chided.

“I need to dig fast,” Evelyn said, scraping at the earth.

Lysette paused beside her, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. Somewhere in the trees, a bird trilled over the sound of scraping earth. Lysette watched her for a while more, seeing that Evelyn was slowly unearthing a buried box. “I was just wondering,” Lysette said.

“Wondering what?” Evelyn grunted, pulling the box from the hole and dusting it off.

“When you were going to tell me this plan of yours.”

Evelyn froze. The grinned up at Lysette. “Oh yeah, I didn’t, did I?” she said. She turned back to the lock, drawing out a ring of keys from her pouch. “It’s like this. We head into the village in normal clothing. Refugees are all over the place. I shouldn’t be recognized if I use more bandage on my head.” She tried turning a key, but the lock stubbornly refused to give way. “We get a feel of the village, try to count heads. I may sneak back into the castle if I can. You do your… whatever, Templar thing and  - ugh, this fucking lock!” The lock clattered on the wood as she flicked it in irritation.

“Lockpicking skills insufficient?” Lysette asked evenly.

“Har har. There’s dirt in the lock and it’s jammed--”

Lysette stepped forward and moved her aside with a heavy hand on Evie’s shoulder. Then, shield in hand, she slammed the lip of her shield down onto the lock with a snarl. In a shower of sparks, the lock ring shattered under her strike and fell onto the dirt.

Evelyn stared at Lysette, who stepped back from the shattered lock. “That also works,” she murmured. She opened the box. With, wrapped in waxed paper, were bundles of clothes. She looked up at Lysette thoughtfully. “Probably will fit, she murmured.” She pulled out a bundle and handed it to Lysette. “Yours,” she said. “Get changed. I’m afraid you can’t wear your armor into the village.”

Lysette opened the bundle to the crackle of the wax paper, and stared at the garb that fell out. Simple, yet flowing, the linen dress looked like it had been stained in the mud. She started to undress.

Evelyn, already pulling her armor off, stifled a look of surprise. Lysette wasn’t complaining, wasn’t questioning. It felt a little disconcerting. She dropped her chainmail and started to undo the knots on her gambeson. “So,” she began. “Have you done this before? This infiltration thing?”

“Never,” Lysette replied, her armor clanking to the ground. “Templar recruit training is a little light on the subterfuge and skulduggery.”

“Must be the armor,” Evelyn said. She hesitated, and turned from Lysette a little, facing her back to the Templar as she dropped her breeches. “I mean, why bother with sneaking when you can bash your way through to what you need, right?”

“It’s a tactical option,” Lysette shrugged.

Evie pulled on a pair of peasant’s breeches. With her chest already bound, it would be easy to pass off as a boy. Sadly, not much binding was needed to achieve that. She glanced at Lysette’s curves as the woman pulled off her gambeson, feeling envious for a foolish minute. “So,” Evelyn said to take her mind off things. “There’ll be mages.”

“Yes,” Lysette looked at her curiously. “So it seems.”

Evelyn pulled on a dirty checked shirt. “That’s not going to be an issue?”

“Should it be?” The dress flowed around Lysette as she put it on, the garment falling to mid calf. She let her hair free of the bun, her brown locks falling around her face and shoulders. “This disguise isn’t that bad. People in the countryside get by with worse.”

Evelyn nodded. “Then we won’t have to steal from Gamma Maddie,” she said.

“You were going to steal from an old woman?” Lysette blinked.

“Borrow.”

“You just said steal!”

“Doesn’t matter since you can wear what we have anyway,” Evelyn shrugged. She buttoned on a vest, for all intents and purposes looked like a boy. She pulled bandages from her pouch belt and glanced up at Lysette strapping on her sword belt. “Is it too much to ask for you to--”

“Yes it is,” said Lysette, fastening her buckle on. She rested her hand on the hilt of her sword. “I’m still a Templar whatever I wear. We cannot be without our swords.”

“Hah!” Evelyn said, her cheeks heating up as she wrapped the bandages around her head and over one eye, enough to hide her face. “Those Templars I killed wore swords. The girl they raped was screaming for hours.”

Lysette was quiet for a moment, her hand resting on the pommel of her sword. Overhead, the bird trilled again, its song cutting through the thick silence. “Those Templars gave up their duty long ago,” she murmured.

“Which duty?” Evelyn snapped, the linen bandages hissing as she pulled the knot tight. “The one where they hunt and kill mages? The one where they not abuse their power with common folk? The one where they make you tranquil if you so much as sneeze wrong?”

She saw the tick in Lysette’s eye, the reddening of the woman’s cheeks as she looked resolutely ahead. Evelyn grit her teeth. “It doesn’t matter,” she said as she stood, stuffing her uniform into the box. “Forget I said anything. Stick your armour in the box and let’s just get going. It’s a long walk to Redcliffe.”

 

++++

 

Evelyn scouted ahead on their path down the hillside. She kept a close ear on the birds, well aware that there were more than Templars and Mages in the woods now. She had not forgotten her narrow escape from the demons on her way to Haven. At least now, out of her armor, Lysette was moving far more easily, and quietly. But Evelyn was still faster, and soon found the trees breaking as the road came into view. It was noisy here. She crouched down silently, watching the road. Caravans wound down the road, many bearing furniture, food, the worldly possessions of the townfolk. Huddled together on the road, villagers walked, bent double and laden with heavy bundles, the hands of women wrapped tightly around their children’s. She knew them, recognized a few. They were from Redcliffe.

She heard Lysette approach and gestured for her to stop. Lysette froze, her hand moving to her sword. Evelyn put her finger to her lips and motioned Lysette to join her. Lysette bent low and crept over, her hand on her hilt. She crouched by Evelyn and looked over the smaller woman’s shoulder. “Refugees,” she murmured.

“From Redcliffe,” Evelyn murmured in reply. “It would be awfully conspicuous if we went the other way. We’re supposed to be running from the shit show, not towards it.”

“But that doesn’t make sense,” Lysette frowned. “The Mage-Templar skirmishes centre around the farmlands to the west and the Crossroads. What are they running from? The village is supposed to be safe.”

“That is a very good question,” Evelyn smiled. “We’ll find out soon. We’d best let them pass and then take another path I know of towards the village.”

“More sneaking?” Lysette asked with distaste.

“It’s good for the legs.”

The caravan soon trundled by, leaving dust hanging in the air with their passing. Evelyn led Lysette out of the forest and onto the road, hurrying along in the direction of the village. Eventually, Evelyn found what she was looking for, a path off the road that led up a hill, with white stone slabs laid into the earth to form a crude stairway.

They left the road and headed up the path, startling a grazing ram in the process, which bolten off with frightened dark eyes. Evelyn’s hand reached to her bodice, fingers tracing the box still kept there. “Okay,” she said as a large round cottage came into view, its roof laden with wildflowers and grass. “I’ll barter off a shield for you. Whistler lives here and he has two sons. Bound to have a shield lying about.”

“Barter?” Lysette said. “I’m surprised.”

“I’d borrow it but I wouldn’t want to offend your sensibilities.”

Lysette rolled her eyes. She reached into a hip pouch on her belt and handed Evelyn some coins. “More than fair payment for a shield. We are at war.”

“Wait here.” Evelyn took the money without question and headed to the cottage as Lysette waited at the top of the path. Whistler answered the door after some intense knocking. Whistler was a man who had aged into teak, his skin darkened by the sun and etched by the winds and the years. “Hello, mister,” Evelyn piped in a boyish voice, mimicking the Ferelden accent. “My sister needs a shield, mister. I’ve got money.”

Whistler glared at him, then at Lysette. “Three gold,” he said.

“Three gold!” Evelyn exclaimed. “You’re cutting my throat here! We need it - there are demons and--”

Whistler moved to shut the door on her. Evelyn pushed back against the aged wood. “Mister please, I only have two gold! We need a shield, I can’t fight, you’re killing us, Mister!”

The pressure on the door was eased. “Times are hard, boy. Three gold.”

Evelyn bit her lip. “Three gold and we won’t have a copper to our name!”

“You’ll have your life. And a shield.”

Evelyn bit her lip. “Fine,” she said and handed over the money. Whistler snatched the coins, shoved a round shield in her hands and slammed the door in her face.

Evelyn stuck her tongue out at the door, and felt a little better. Then she returned to Lysette. “I gave you six gold,” Lysette pointed out, strapping the shield on her arm.

“It’s more suspicious to hand it over without begging now,” Evelyn said quietly. “People are desperate, and he’ll forget two more desperate people.”

“That actually makes sense,” she said. Then she held out a hand. “You’ve also not handed me back my change.”

Evelyn laughed sheepishly and returned her the coins.

Their path continued on past the house, and a windmill overlooking the road from its perch on the hillside. They would pass a gatehouse, if her memory served her well. Then it was a short walk past a tinker’s cottage towards the village. “So, what do you need precisely?” she asked Lysette after they had walked a while more.

“Excuse me?” Lysette asked. She walked with her hand on the pommel of her sword, looking around. “Need for what?”

“To assess a mage.”

“Nothing,” she said. “We feel their ability to manipulate the Fade. It is how we can tell a Mage from a Tranquil and a normal person.”

Evelyn glanced over her shoulder at her. “Ever made a Tranquil before?”

“No. I was only a recruit. Not high enough to get to the important meetings, but it saved my life at the Conclave.”

“Oh?”

“When it exploded, we were far enough from the blast to survive, but beset by demons. We would have been swarmed had Commander Cullen’s forces not broken through to rescue us.” Their footsteps landed on stone now as they rejoined the road, which stretched out empty before them. In the distance, the Gates of Redcliffe loomed.

“Is that why you’re here?”

“When someone saves your life, you owe them a debt. And the Templars are splintered. Broken. They no longer know their duty. Commander Cullen showed me that I could serve the way we were supposed to, but not with the Templars. So I joined the Inquisition.”

“Did he really say that? I thought the Inquisition was supposed to bring peace between Templar and Mages.”

“We are.”

“And the guy who thought up the Kirkwall Procedure, who brings Templars into the Inquisition to serve like before - that’s bringing peace?”

“What does the Kirkwall Procedure have to do with--” Lysette froze. Her sword snaked out of its sheathe, the blade singing. Evelyn’s hands went to her blades. “Something is wrong,” Lysette breathed. “It’s changing… The Veil is…”

“Is what?” Evelyn snarled urgently.

“Changing - a feel on the back of your tongue, metallic taste to the air- What is going on?”

“You tell me, Templar!” Evelyn snapped. And the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, electricity felt like it was crackling across her skin as the taste of tin danced on her tongue - and the world exploded in green light and fire.

Evelyn’s daggers flashed green as they emerged from their sheathes, squinting as she looked up the rift opening right before them. “Fall back!” Lysette commanded, raising shield and sword. The earth was already bubbling with oily black pools around the rift, hissing with voices from the beyond.  

“Don’t be stupid! We have to get through!” Evelyn retorted.

And the demons began to rise, their dark screams shaking her to the soul. Towering and spindly with shrivelled green skin, their mouths gaped with screams of pure terror that caught at the heart. They were more terrifying in the daylight, every abominable detail clear to the eye.

It raised an arm, claws glinting in the green light of the rift, and Evelyn rolled out of the way just in time as it gouged deep ruts in the cobbles. Evelyn rolled to her feet behind the demon.

Another strike was aimed at Lysette, who turned it with her shield, a snarl on her face. “Blessed are the peacekeepers,” she growled. “Champions of the just!” Her blade slashed at the clawed hand that swiped at her.

Evelyn’s blades tingled in her arms, flashing with blue light to drown the green. A black shade rushed at her, screaming from the depths of the void. She parried the strike, the demon’s momentum drawing it into an inexorable spin as she deflected the claws.

“ _Those who oppose Thee shall feel the wrath of heaven_ ,” Lysette’s voice rang out. Evelyn spun, her other blade searing the demon’s flesh as she buried it deep in the demon’s neck. A flash of blue burst from her blade, and the demon screamed as it contorted in pain, sinking to the ground and vanishing in a pool of bubbling darkness.

A bolt hit Evelyn in the back, her body quivering as weakness overwhelmed her. An ethereal figure fired another burst, hitting her in the shoulder. Evelyn reached for a vial in her pouched, crushing it in her fist and fading into the shadows. She pushed through the fatigue, darting around the green spirit, who had turned its attention to Lysette.

The towering demon was pressing her hard, and Lysette was giving ground. The spirit raised its hands to cast again. The shadows fell from Evelyn as she leapt, her blades flashing blue, digging into what seemed to be the spirit’s skull. It screamed and froze, caught in a rictus of pain as it was sucked back into the splintering rift. “ _Field and forest shall burn!_ ” Lysette snarled. “ _Seas shall rise to devour them!_ ”

Blood splattered as Lysette’s blade cut into the crook of its elbow, severing tendons. Lysette darted down, spinning with her shield drawn. Her savage cry resonated as the smashed the edge of her shield into the demon’s knee. Snapping bones thundered over the demon’s cries.

Evelyn’s hand closed around the branch of a tree and she vaulted onto it. Another leap brought her higher into the tree. Lysette rose to her feet and raised her sword to the sky. “ _Winds shall tear their nations from the face of the earth!_ ”

Evelyn shut her eyes just in time as the pillar of light burst from the heavens, searing white and red through her eyelids and sweeping the fatigue from her bones to the wailing chorus of demons. She squinted painfully, her garotte wire winding free from her wrist. She threw ite weighted end to the demon, where it caught its ankle and wound around it, tiny claws digging into flesh. Then, she caught the wire taught and pushed herself from the branch. Gravity lent strength to her pull, her wire hissing as it pulleyed on the branch, and the demon’s foot was torn from under it, sending it tumbling to the ground.

Lysette’s cry resounded as she leapt, her sword crunching through the skull of the demon as she landed on it. Evelyn’s feet touched the ground, and the demon’s blood hung in the air, Lysette’s body slowing in her strike. Evelyn looked over her shoulder, demons hanging still as they charged at Lysette. The world had slowed for all but her? Yet she hadn’t broken her quicksilver flask! The ground beneath her feet glowed with strange green light.

It didn’t matter. Evelyn did not wait. She cut her garotte wire with a dagger and reached under her bodice. Throwing daggers fanned in her fingers as she drew four in each hand. She aimed for the eyes of the charging demons, their bodies slowed like a storm cloud scudding across the sun. Her daggers fired off one by one, buried in the demon’s skulls, but her muscles burned with the effort, her heart thundering in her ears. With glacier speed, she saw the demon’s recoil from the blades that sprouted from their skulls.

Evelyn turned at the sound of trodden grass. Another shade loomed over her, its face lit with green from below. She threw her dagger at it as it leapt, but the moment the blade but into its face, it closed in on her. Like a flame flaring to life, the demon sped up, blurring as it charged at her with its dying effort. She barely blocked the blow with her arms as it slashed at her, throwing her off her feet and sending her flying.

The word blurred back into motion as she landed on her front, and her body screamed with pain, every limb quivering. The demon landed, but it was not quite dead. Evelyn reached for her weapons, but her arms were limp, she could barely lift her head. Claws flashed as the demon raised its hand for the final blow.

A blue flash burst then, as Lysette cut the demon’s arm from it’s body and rounded with her blade to sever its head. Evelyn saw more pools of darkness forming, but her voice would not leave her quivering lips, her own body a dead weight to her warning cries. The world blurred in and out of vision. " _Lightning shall rain down from the sky,_ " Lysette grunted as blinding blue flared again, the pools of darkness flickering out. 

Lysette leaned over her and wrapped an arm under her waist. Evelyn felt her body lifted easily and the gates of Redcliffe receded from them, Lystette's running footsteps thundering in her ears. “No,” she managed to murmur before silent darkness fell. Ehren. Redcliffe. She was so close.

 _They shall cry out to their false_ gods...

_And find silence._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm working on it... Thanks for the encouragement so far guys. :) Drop a note below if you have any feedback on the fic (even if it's "YOU SUCK SHE MARY SUE STOP WRITING.") u__u I'm a big girl. I can deal with that.


	5. Fireside to Fireside

The sound of crackling flames gently intruded upon the darkness. Evelyn blinked, the sight of stars greeting her eyes, shards of light scattered across the dark velvet of night. More sounds… the rustling of leaves as the night breeze tugged at the crowns of the trees. The sounds of distant voices and fretful children. Clops of horses hooves on the cobbled road. Evelyn tried to rouse herself, feeling cold stone under her quivering hands. Her fingers sought the small square box under her bodice and she breathed easier to feel it there.

A fire burned beside her, illuminating the low walls of the watchtower. Something bubbled in a pot hung over the firepit. Her stomach twisted with hunger. A figure stood, leaning against the watchtower walls, looking out across the night. As Evelyn sat up, her leg and arm muscles twinged and trembled. It felt like she had run a hundred miles. Lysette turned and looked at her. “You’re awake,” she said.

“Yeah, I wish I wasn’t,” Evelyn grunted, gently stretching her muscles. “Where are we?”

“At a watchtower,” Lysette said. “At the junction of the East Road and Redcliffe Road.”

“And that noise?”

“A caravan. They were kind enough to give us food, provided we keep watch. They saw you were injured.”

“You’re a Templar, right?” Evelyn asked, gingerly rolling her arm to loosen her shoulder muscles.

“You noticed?”

“What was that? That glowing light business?”

“Templar skills,” Lysette shrugged. “They negate magic, strengthen blades against demons, among other things.”

“And the Chant?”

“It is how I activate my skills. It is not necessary, but it helps me.” Lysette folded her arms. “That rift we encountered--”

Evelyn held up a hand, the sound of a footstep on wood cutting through the conversation. A head appeared through an opening in the floor. A woman with gaunt eyes and cheeks turned to look at her. “Ah,” she said as she climbed up. “You’re awake.” She dropped a sack on the ground and pulled herself up onto the top of the watch tower. She wore the robes of a mage, though tattered and worn, the hem smeared with mud.

“Ellendra,” Lysette greeted.

“I brought you some bread,” said the mage. “And now that she’s awake, I can finally treat her.”

“Thank you,” Lysette said. “I’d give you a hand but I have to keep watch.”

“I can manage, Ser Knight,” said Ellendra. She pulled the dark country loaves from the bag and set them around the fire to warm. Then, she turned her attention to Evelyn. “Now for that head wound,” she said. Evelyn sat still as she knelt beside her, undoing the bandage.

“So,” Evelyn murmured. “What’s a mage like you doing in a place like this?”

Elendra did not smile at the weak attempt at humour. “Healing your wound?”

“Yes, but besides that.”

“Healing all their wounds - the refugees, I mean. One might as well do some good.”

“You were with the caravan all along?”

“Ever since the village.”

“You were from the village? One of the Free Mages?”

Ellendra snorted genteely. “Not one of the Free Mages,” she said. “I travelled with them, but I do not consider myself an ally.” She set her hand on Evelyn’s wound gently and a warmth washed over Evelyn. The wound felt like it was bathed in warm wine, stinging and burning at the same time. She bit her lip.

“Why would you leave the Free Mages? I don’t understand.”

“I was from the college of Aequetarians. I do not affiliate with the Free Mages or the Loyalists. So I left. And just in time, before that rift appeared.”

Evelyn glanced at Lysette, who shrugged.

“I imagine Grand Enchanter Fiona must have her hands full.”

“She does. Caring for that many mages, young and old, on whatever provisions the castle and the Inquisition gave out. It cannot be easy.”

“The Inquisition are in the village?”

“Some were there providing relief, but the Mages from the castle were not friendly. Eventually, the villagers whom the Inquisition brought blankets and food for took them and left.”

“The villagers left Redcliffe? Ow.”

“Sorry,” Ellendra said, shifting her hand. “Life in the village for a non-mage is increasingly difficult. The mages look upon non-mages with hostility. Many decided to leave for the Inquisition refugee camps around the crossroads.” Gentle hands smoothed Evelyn’s hair, and she realized that the pain from the wound had ceased. Ellendra stood up.

“I take it you will join our Caravan tomorrow, Ser Knight?” Ellendra asked Lysette.

“We will,” she said.

Evelyn bit back her words.

Ellendra nodded, and left through the trapdoor. Evelyn touched her head, her fingers tracing the wound and finding it closed. When she was sure Ellendra’s footsteps had descended far enough to put her out of earshot, Evelyn looked up at Lysette.

“I presume we’re going to leave this caravan?” she said. "And head for Redcliffe?"

“No, we absolutely cannot,” Lysette said. “We will get our armour tomorrow, and we will return to the Crossroads to report on the strange rift.”

Evelyn’s eyes hardened. “Really? Why?”

“That rift we found,” Lysette frowned. “It altered you. I could not see your movements. You threw eight knives in the time it took me to gasp. When you were knocked from that… pool of green, you collapsed.” Firelight glinted in her eyes. “I’ve never seen anything like that, not even at the Breach itself. We need to report this to Sister Leliana. Besides, when last we fled, they were lowering Redcliffe’s gates. I suspect no one is coming in or out for the time being.”

“Our orders were to get into Redcliffe and count heads!” Evelyn snapped.

“ _Now_ you care about orders?”

“You were the one giving me a hard time for disobeying them before!”

Lysette’s eyes narrowed. “No, I suspect there is another reason. Those orders are convenient for you now, aren’t they? Is there something in Redcliffe that you want?”

Evelyn snorted. “Maybe this was a mistake,” she said. “No use in bringing a Templar to count mages. Like bringing a fox into a chicken coop.” She reached for her pouch to strap it around her waist once more.

"Stop talking like that! You make us sound like we are the same as the barbarians you slaughtered at the camp.”

“Once a Templar, always a Templar!” Evelyn felt the heat rise in her cheeks. “You don’t care about the Mages. First chance we get and you want to leave them trapped behind a rift. You’d be happy if they starved to death.”

“And what will you do? Demons pour out of that rift and you have no means to kill them all. Are you trying to die? What do you want in Redcliffe?”

“Nothing that you need to know about!” Evelyn shouted and quickly rose to her feet. That was a mistake. The world spun, stars turning in the sky as she staggered. A hand caught her arm, another cradled the small of her back, lowering her to her bedroll once more. “Ugh, stop being so noble,” she groaned. Evelyn felt breathless, her muscles screamed. What had happened at the rift? She had never moved so fast in her life, not even with quicksilver…

“When are you going to get it into your head that not all Templars are murderous power-drunk psychopaths?” Lysette asked.

“When you bring back the mages you made Tranquil,” Evelyn growled as she steadied herself, forcing herself to stay upright and seated. She leaned heavily on her arm and pushed Lysette off her. Lysette let go of her as she knelt on one knee beside Evelyn’s bedroll. “You and your ilk… you were supposed to protect them, not slaughter those they love - not brand them when they did nothing wrong--”

“The blue-eyed mage.” Lysette paused, her brown eyes thoughtful. “No. Not mage. The blue-eyed Tranquil. With dark hair.”

Lock it away. You will not cry. Evelyn’s eyes turned to shards. “Clever,” she simply said.

Lysette sighed and lowered her eyes. She stood up and reached for the pot, setting it down on the stone. There was a stew bubbling inside. The smell of it made Evelyn’s stomach twist in hunger, the gurgle clearly audible.

Lysette put a loaf in Evelyn’s hand. “We Templars cannot change the past,” she said. “We can only atone, and change ourselves. And you do this blue-eyed, dark-haired man no favours by rushing to your death to find him.” Lysette stood and returned to her watch at the parapet, her back to Evelyn.

 

++++

 

There was noise in Haven, more so than usual. Evelyn trudged up through the snow, holding her report for Sister Leliana. It had been an uncomfortable trek back to Haven from the Hinterlands with Lysette. Returning to all this yelling was the last thing she wanted. There seemed to be shouting from the heart of the village. She slipped the report into her belt and quickened her steps. The yelling was growing into the dull roar of a mob.       

When the doors of the Chantry came into view, she realized she was not wrong. There was a mob there, yelling and shouting. There were glints of armor, of course. Some of them donned Inquisition uniforms like her, watching the mob warily. Some were clearly Templars. And facing them, were men and women in robes. Mages? Here?

She frowned, and stopped hurrying. Her slowed pace and small frame made her easy to miss, and she was ignored as she clung to the wall of the Chantry, inching closer to the front of the crowd.

“You’re nothing by ungrateful swine!” she heard the yell over the curses.

“You failed in your duty to the Divine!”

She stood by the Chantry door and spied a pair in the heart of the riot, a mage and a templar, facing off. “Your kind killed the most holy!” the templar snarled at the mage, his teeth bared, his eyes dark.

Evelyn’s eyes darted from the Templar to the Mage. This was bad. She had to stop this somehow. But any blade, any spark now would tip the already feverish mob into bloodlust. “Lies!” The mage pointed a finger at the Templar’s face. “Your kind let her die!”

Shit. Songs to instigate idiots in fur coats were one thing, a bloodbath here was another. She reached for her pouch just as the door to the Chantry slammed open, slapping her right in the nose as her world was suddenly overwhelmed by aged teak and pain.

“Shut your mouth, mage!”

“Enough!”

“Knight-Commander!”

Evelyn groaned, holding her nose as she slowly swung the door shut. “That is not my title!” Cullen stood between mage and Templar, holding them both back from one another. Him and his stupid fur. “We are not Templars any longer. We are _all_ part of the Inquisition!” his voice cracked through the heightened atmosphere, sending it spiraling back into reality. Evelyn watched as mage and Templar took a step back from the look on his face.

Well. That was one way to stop a riot. Yell at people louder. “And what does that mean exactly?” she heard another voice. She peered through the gaps in people’s hips, since she was too short to look over anyone’s heads. A man in a white robe approached. The gold trim on his robe marked him as one of the Chantry.

“Back already, Chancellor?” She heard Cullen say, the weariness and irritation in his voice clearly evident. “Haven’t you done enough?” A man with his heart in his sleeve. If he had a heart.

_We are all part of the Inquisition._

_We Templars cannot change the past. We can only atone, and change ourselves._

She narrowed her eyes at Cullen as she held her throbbing nose. No way.

“I’m curious, Commander, as to how your Inquisition and it’s ‘Herald’ will restore order as you’ve promised.” The Chantryman’s voice was clearly resonant, meant to address the whole crowd.

“Of course you are,” Cullen drawled. Apparently, Cullen was having none of it. Evelyn stopped the chuckle before it escaped. “Back to your duties, all of you!”

With an aire of slight confusion, the Templars and mages started to walk away, as if spurred by the note of command in his voice. As the crowd dispersed, she felt the hair on her hackles stand. Eyes on her. She turned, and saw, wearing the eye of the Inquisition on his breast plate, sword at his hip and shield on his back, the Herald. His messy dark hair fell over his brow and framed his cheekbones, but there was no mistaking the blue eyes on her. Watching her.

She turned as nonchalantly as she could, holding her nose as she walked away with the crowd.

Damn, damn, damn, _damn!_ She’d have to be more careful. She breathed easier after a quick glance over her shoulder. The Herald was speaking to Cullen. She sighed and stilled in her steps. Hopping over a wall, she sidled her way to Leliana’s tent to make her report. She picked up a handful of snow along the way and pressed it against her nose.

Leliana was not at her tent, which was fine. Evelyn was tired. A moment to sit would be welcomed. She headed to a fire, where a sister seemed to be boiling bandages. “Mind if I join you?” she asked.

The sister looked up at her. “Not at all,” said the sister. “What happened to your nose?”

“I got hit in the face by a door,” Evelyn grunted as she sat by the fire, keeping her back to the door.

“Is it broken?”

“No, just bruised,” Evelyn said. “I hope.”  She lowered the ball of snow.

The sister smiled and took her chin in her hand, turning Evelyn’s face left and right. “No, you’re fine,” she said. “What’s your deployment?”

“Scout,” Evelyn sighed in relief. She pulled up her hood and set the snow to her face again. “I have a message for Sister Leliana.” She nodded to the Chantry doors. “So that was scary, huh?”

“Quite,” said the sister. “The mages and Templars cannot get along even now. Even here.”

“Everywhere. I just came from the Hinterlands.”

“Still, we’re doing better here than there, at least.”

“They nearly tore each other to pieces, sister,” Evelyn pointed out.

“Oh, I’m sure they wouldn’t have. Commander Cullen stopped them, after all. They just need a level head to calm everyone down.”

“You mean calm them down by yell at them,” Evelyn smiled.

The sister chuckled as she stirred her bandages. “The commander does yell a lot. But at least they didn’t tear each other to pieces, as you say.”

“You’re awfully optimistic, Sister.” Evelyn chuckled. “I want whatever you’re drinking to get that cheerful.”

The sister laughed despite herself. “We came to the Conclave for peace. Those who joined the Inquisition want the same. But tensions are high after the explosion, otherwise we get along fine.” She grinned at Evelyn. “And I’m not drinking anything. It’s faith. Faith in the Maker. He will show us a way forward.”

Evelyn pouted. “I don’t think Flissa sells any faith on tap,” she said.

“It’s available for free everywhere,” beamed the sister.

“I think you’re carrying this analogy a little farther than it has to go, Sister…”

“Gertrude.”

“Evie Wren.”

“A pleasure.” Evelyn heard the crunching of snow behind her. The draining colour from Sister Gertrude’s face told her all she needed to know.

 _Shit._ She kept her head lowered.

“Excuse us, please,” she heard an unwelcomed familiar voice.

Sister Gertrude could not have left quicker or bowed any lower. Evelyn stood to leave quickly.

“Not you.” A hand caught her shoulder and she was turned. She let the ball of snow drop and looked up the man standing behind her pugnaciously. The Herald of Andraste stared at her face and then burst out laughing from the depths of his belly. “It is you! Little Evie!” His arms wrapped around her, and she nearly drowned in his embrace.

She sighed in resignation. “Hello, Maxie.” Her hands pat the shield on his back. “Or should I call you Maxwell? Or maybe, Herald of Andraste?”

He grunted as he let her go. “Don't, you've no idea how much I have wanted them to stop calling me that.”

“Yeah, it doesn't really gel for me at all,” Evelyn folded her arms, as her lip curled into a cheeky smile. “Do they know you used to fart on your hand and sniff it?”

Maxwell rubbed the back of his neck and winced. “If they did, would the fire me?”

“I doubt it, oh, last great hope for Thedas. It’s good to see you alive. I was worried until I heard who was saved by the hand of Andraste herself.”

“I hate you,” Maxwell grinned. “What happened to your nose?”

“I got hit by a door,” Evelyn sighed.

“Sounds about right. What are you doing here, Evie?”

“Delivering a letter to Sister Leliana. I’m, uh, sort of a scout for her.”

Maxwell frowned slightly. “That I didn’t know. Does she know you used to sniff your own farts too?”

“Ladies don’t fart, that’s the breath of unicorns,” Evelyn said loftily.

Maxwell snorted. “What about Ehren, how is he? Is he with us too?”

“He’s--” Evelyn bit her lip. “I don’t know where he is.”

The smile faded from Maxwell’s face. “Then--”

“Look, Maxie - I mean, Herald? It’s good to see you again, really. But it might really not be a good idea for you to, uh, fraternize with the little soldiers like me.”

“What are you talking about?” Maxwell frowned.

“I’m serious,” she said. “I can’t promise I won’t do something spectacularly stupid, and I don’t want you implicated by the fact that we’re cousins. You have enough on your plate being the saviour of all Thedas without being saddled with my idiocy. Or Father’s. Besides, they’ll give me shit in the barracks if you’re seen playing favourites.”

Maxwell folded his arms. “Well, that sounds surprisingly mature.”

“Yeah, well, don’t noise it about. I have a reputation to maintain.”

“Or, just a thought, bear with me here - you can just _not_ do something stupid?”

“You talk like you haven’t known me all my life.”

“Herald!” Maxwell and Evelyn turned at the sound of the call. Cullen was waving Maxwell over. Leliana and Josephine heading into the Chantry.

“Looks like you’re wanted,” Evelyn said. Cullen was watching her.

“I guess so.”

Evelyn pointed with her chin. “Tell Cullen his coat looks stupid.”

Maxwell raised an eyebrow despite his smile and shook his head as he left her by the fire.

Evelyn sighed heavily and gingerly touched her nose. It still stung, so she reached for more snow. So much for laying low, she thought as she sat down and reached out to stir the bandages for Sister Gertrude until she got back. To her pleasant surprise, the good sister brought back a salve for her nose. 

An hour or so later, Leliana emerged from the Chantry. Evelyn stood to attention. "Report on the rifts at Redcliffe, Sister," she said, leaving Gertrude by the fire as she fell into step with Leliana. 

"Oh?" Leliana said. "You were supposed to count heads in Redcliffe village."

"Something stranger occured," Evelyn said, handing the report to Leliana. "It seemed highly pertinent to the Inquisition, since the Herald faces rifts every day. He may want to be wary of these. Unfortunately, the rifts have sent the village into lockdown."

Leliana took the sheaf of parchment, tapping her lip as she looked thoughtfully at Evelyn, who shifted from one foot to the other. "I presume you speak Orlesian?" Leliana said suddenly. 

"Of course," Evelyn blinked. "Fluently. I studied with a Bardic master in Val Royeaux."

"Then I am giving you a new assignment."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From "Omg I don't know what to write" to "Omg, I seriously need to stop writing and bathe or something."
> 
> Enjoy the speed while my Muse permits.


	6. The Helm of the Hopeful, the Mask of the Lost

The Orders were simple - ensure the purchase and delivery of a scroll from the Velours Auction to an Enchanter who worked for the Inquisition. With a side mission, because nothing was ever easy. Night had fallen over Haven, and the bonfires were lit. Evelyn had readied herself to leave, her pack prepared and her supplies ready for a trip to Val Royeaux. But there was something to do before she stole away in the night on her journey.

Evelyn walked past the tents that were the barracks outside Haven, heading to the gate. Within the village, she saw the windows of a lit cottage. There was a Chantry standard hanging by the door. Evelyn resisted the urge to shake her head. You could take the boy out of the Chantry, but you couldn’t take the Chantry out of the boy, it seemed.

She drew a breath as she approached the door. Orders were orders. Let’s be a big girl about this. She raised her hand to knock, but the murmur of a voice from within ghosted to her ears through the winter-worn wood of the door.

The Chant.

He prayed.

Still? Through the hole in the sky, the splintered Templars, the scattered Mages, the Tranquil made and he still prayed? To whom?

Her eyes lowered, staring at a knot in the wood. His voice was resonant, the words of the Chant spilling from his lips as easily as breath. Her fingers rested on the wood, drawing across its weathered front. Her blue eyes averted from the door and hardened. He prayed. She didn’t. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t?

So what?

Doors shut within her as she lifted her hand from the wood and rapped on Cullen’s door. The winter wind tugged her hair and hood as the chanting ceased within. One step, two steps, three steps met her ears - tiny cottage, single room, probably - and the door opened.

Cullen stood at the door, a steel scouring brush in one hand, shiny with oil. He wasn’t in his armor, wearing a simple tunic and breeches. Evelyn realized he was pretty much as big as that silly coat made him look as she looked up at him.

There was surprise in his amber eyes. “You,” he said.

"Me,” Evelyn replied.

“Been singing again?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “But you’ve been.” She jerked her thumb at the door. “The wood is thinner than you realize. Do all Templars Chant while scrubbing armour?”

“It keeps the mind busy,” Cullen said. “What do you want?”

Slight tinge to his cheeks. Strange man. Why was he getting all shy about scrubbing armor to the Chant? “Sister Leliana is sending me to Val Royeaux on behalf of Lady Josephine. She mentioned you needed a messenger to the city.”

“Oh, that was sooner than I expected,” he said.

“I thought to head out before light. No sense in wasting time,” she said. It was also easier to buy horses from people who were asleep.

He nodded and stepped aside. “Come in out of the cold. I’ll get the message ready.”

Evelyn hesitated for all of a heartbeat, but then stepped into the cottage. True enough, it was a one room affair. A bed in the corner, a lit fireplace, armor scattered on a rug on the ground in front of the hearth. He was polishing it. He shut the door behind her and headed to a desk overflowing with parchment, maps, map markers. It was a mess. He sat down and pulled a blank parchment and quill to himself. She caught sight of some of the documents, her eyes running down the words. Supply lines. Lyrium supplies. Incidence reports. Training regiments. Here was a man whose filing method was clearly “Put it down wherever there’s a bit of table”.

He started to write as he stood by the table. Why standing? Perhaps for focus? She averted her eyes from the table, drawing it across the room. Bed in the corner, unmade. Silly coat hanging from a peg on the wall. Bunch of stuff piled in another corner, and a small tabletop used as a pantry. Over the fireplace, sitting on the mantle, was a helm shaped like a lion’s head, steel fangs glistening in the fire’s glow. She tilted her head slightly. “Can I ask you questions or is that not military?” she said.

He glanced at her. “Still having trouble fitting in, I see?” he asked drily.

“Actually, yes. Bards are trained to improvise and act independently. I’m not used to being in an organization like this.”

“Truly? I know little of the lives of Bards, but I can imagine that would be a necessary trait to have in your line of work.”

“So can I ask you questions?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“That helmet there,” she pointed with her chin. “I’ve never seen you use it. Why not?”

“We don’t wear helmets in camp.”

“Is that some sort of Templar thing? Lysette has a lion on her breastplate.”

“That is the Lion of Orlais, a sigil worn by Orlesian Templars. This is… a helm of my own.”

She looked at the helm with its fur trim, and his coat on the wall. “The Lion of Ferelden.”

The scratching of his quill stilled. “I-- suppose. Though I do not presume to call myself such.”

“Dress like one, though.”

He chuckled then, an oddly gentle tone from his usual yelling. “Everyone has to have a dream, I suppose.” The quill scratched the paper again. "And hope.”

Her fingers dug slightly into her arm as she stood with her arms crossed. “Is that what the Inquisition is? Hope?”

_We are all part of the Inquisition._

_We Templars cannot change the past. We can only atone, and change ourselves._

He sighed. “It is a lot of things to many people,” he admitted. “Hope for some, transformation, desperation, salvation. Even penance.” He stood dropped the quill in its inkwell and reached for a red candle, lighting it from the one lit on his desk.

“And for you?”

The question hung in the air as a log from the fire snapped, the crackle of the flames peppering the air. Evelyn heard the wax dropping onto the folded parchment, blood-like in the firelight. Cullen blew out the red candle. “Perhaps a little of everything,” he said. He pressed the seal of the Inquisition upon the wax and fanned the parchment in his hand to quickly cool the wax. He straightened up and turned to her.

He stepped away from the desk, placing the parchment in her hand. Her fingers closed around it, but he hesitated in letting go. She glanced up at him, catching his amber eyes on her, uncertain, almost wary. She saw his lips part, a word caught on the breath he would not speak. Then his lips tightened shut, shoulder slightly slumped in resignation. Doors shut in his eyes, and when he drew a breath, he was the Commander once more.

“I need this sent to a dwarf in Val Royeaux named Worthy,” he said, his fingers releasing the parchment. “He has a front man - Barnabus, at the Summer Bazaar. I need you to hand this over to him, and address it to a dwarf named Worthy.”

“Right,” she said. An armor polish stain on the corner of the parchment met her eyes, the ghost of a word unsaid. She pushed it from her mind. “Is he Carta?”

“He might possibly have inclinations.”

“Friendly?”

“For a price. Tell him who it’s from.”

“Carta connections, Commander?” she said, slipping the letter into her pocket.

“We all do what we have to for the Inquisition, don’t we?”

With the letter safe in hand, she stepped out into the snow, her footsteps drawing her away from the cottage more hurriedly than she liked. Her mind was heavy with… everything - the drop of wax on the paper, glittering armor scattered on the floor, his voice washing over her.

Hope. Transformation. Desperation. Salvation. Penance.

He had been the focus of so much that went wrong, part of the problem with the guardians who had betrayed her brother. She had believed in the Chant. She had sung. But Ehren was broken and gone, and now what was the Chant if not for a cry in the dark? Cullen had written the Kirkwall Procedure. It was the catalyst for a symptom of a deep illness within the Chantry, and now the Mages were scattered and the Templars were thugs. They had always been thugs!

She stopped. The snow piled around her boots, glittering in the light of the Breach. Cold wind drew its fingers through her hair. Cullen was a symptom of the failure of the Templars, and Ehren was a victim.

She lifted her blue eyes from the snow to the sky, green light casting a pall to her cheeks as the Breach glowed through the snow clouds.

_“And for you?”_

_“Perhaps a little of everything.”_

_The memory of lips parted and hesitating, of a ghost of a word left unsaid..._

 

+++++

 

It was far easier to buy a horse from someone who was asleep. She had slipped money under a farmer’s door and made off with one of his carriage horses. It was no prizewinner by any means, clearly more used to carriages than riding, but she made it to Val Royeaux regardless after about a week of riding through the frigid Frostbacks, down the passes of the Emerald Graves.

The mountains passes were dotted with Inquisition Way Stations, serving both soldiers and common folk with medicine and other necessities. In that regard, she was surprised at the reach of the fledgling Inquisition, and how much organization it must have taken to secure these supply lines. She left the horse at a stable of a contact in Lydes, and then boarded an Inquisition Chartered boat to Val Royeaux. They were preparing the way for the Herald of Andraste, who was coming to address the Chantry. She sincerely hoped Maxwell knew what he was doing.

In Val Royeaux, she took her leave of the Inquisition, and made her way into the city. The city was sweltering. The setting sun tainted the sky with fiery bands of gold and orange, the wind only mixing the heat of the city. Evelyn had left her uniform behind this time, instead wearing the plain peasant clothes of a farm boy from a cache she had retrieved in Lydes. Her blades and vials were all safely hidden about her body, under the leather vest she wore. Her hair tousled and under a wide-brimmed hat looked none the worse for any farm boy. The Orlesians in their perfumed, layered coats and dresses looked down on her from behind their masks, and let her walk by. They would not remember the young lad from the country walking past.

By the time the sun set, her footsteps had taken her to the poor districts of the city, where the roads were caked with dung, effluence and filth from butcher shops and tallow makers flowed down an open gutter in the middle of the street as the shops that lined it were closing up as the last slivers of fiery sunlight faded from the sky. It was as close to an Alienage as any human was willing to admit. Evelyn took her time walking down that street. The stench, the babble of voices and the distant grunts of pigs, the careful foot placement on the pitted cobbles to avoid soiling your boots. It was like coming home, almost. A product of her wholesome upbringing with a travelling, absent father and vapid mother.

There was one building that dominated the street. It rose three storeys high, doors dominated by the painting of a pink camellia blooming from a cauldron with two feet. A red lantern hung above the door. There were no windows on the street level, which was telling enough. Evelyn took off her wide brimmed hat and knocked on the door, her taps bearing a strange cadence to them.

The door was opened, and Evelyn has the sense to look down. The elf girl was tiny, barely three feet tall. Her arms were skinny and her hair a halo of tight platinum blonde curls stained by the red glow of the lantern. She wore a mask on her face, plain and simple leather, curled up at the ends like feathers, but totally covering her eyes. The girl stood there for a moment, and then stepped aside to let Evelyn in.

Evelyn stepped into the room, and the door was shut behind her. The room beyond was dimly lit, and looking for all the world like a respectable woman’s sitting room. A hearth was lit, framed by white marble. Tiny bottles of all sorts lined the mantle and almost every table top. They were beautiful, little gems in and of themselves - coloured glass, mother of pearl, polished stone, some carved of pure gems and coming in every shape imaginable. As the firelight danced upon their polished surface, it seemed as it the room were illuminated by fallen stars, glittering in the dark.

Plush couches with delicately carved armrests flanked the fireplace, a table between them topped with white marble with golden veins. Upon the walls, hidden by the shadows near the ceiling, hung a myriad of masks. Without windows on the lower floor, there was never any light here. The masks would hang at the edge of sight, one step away from darkness, for as long as the house stands. “Lady bids you wait,” she heard. The little elf girl looked up at her through her unseeing mask. “Lady bids you sit.”

“Hello to you too, Camelia,” Evelyn said, walking to one of the couches and sitting down. Camelia left the room, walking with silent footsteps. Evelyn waited, knowing better than to rush her host. It was then that the door opened once more. In walked a tall woman, large and over-ripe in her lace-trimmed corset, her shoulders and curvaceous arms bare. Her hair was powdered white, and raised into a lavish coif atop her head, adorned with a single camellia and a string of pearls. The firelight danced across the gem earrings and necklace she wore, and set the fine champagne silks of her large skirt alight. Evelyn stood and bowed at the waist. “Lady Chaudron,” she greeted.

The Lady lifted a delicate long brass pipe to her lips, the end of it trimmed in ivory. She drew a breath from the pipe and breathed out to the ceiling. “Little Wren,” she replied as she sat down on the opposite couch, her hooded gray eyes sparkling in amusement, her luscious lips lifted in a smile. “How unusual for a you to use the visitor’s entrance.”

“I’m on official business for my new master,” Evelyn said.

“Oh? Last I heard, you were under the employ of the Arl of Redcliffe.”

“Things went south. I was reassigned.”

“That’s a blessing. You were growing far too Fereldan. No mask, no robes?”

“Actually, I had all those,” Evelyn smiled. “But I had to leave it behind while things were going south. I’m in the market for new robes.”

“And a new master?” Chaudron smiled. “I could use another pair of hands about the place.”

Evelyn laughed. “I’m afraid I’m very bad at making tea. You would be disappointed in me.”

Chaudron sighed as she leaned back on the couch, tucking her feet up to lounge. She waved her pipe at Evelyn. “I am already disappointed in you, young lady,” she said. “Micah and I set you up nicely with the Viscomte. We’re quite upset with the way you left his little boy.”

“The ‘little boy’ was twenty three years old,” Evelyn pointed out. “And he had killed my friend.”

“And your moment of vengeance left you a pariah,” Chaudron pointed out. “To the point where bards were hunting you.”

Evelyn shrugged. “I needed a change of location anyway. Orlais is far too clean for me. I thought to experience Ferelden quaintness, such as the dank stench of dog. Grows on you. Mostly because it’s hard to wash off.”

Chaudron laughed. “Glib girl. Your employment opportunities lost that day are truly a pity. Imagine how talented you’d have to be to stay alive with that mouth of yours.”

“I was trained by the best, my Lady,” Evelyn grinned. “Master Micah honed my blades, and you honed my mind.”

The pipe tapped Evelyn on the head. “Not honed enough if you make light of everything, child,” Chaudron chided. “People in your line die young as it is. You’d truly be a fool to waste your mind. And I do not raise fools.”

Evelyn pouted as she rubbed her head.

"And that look has never worked on me.”

Evelyn chuckled despite herself. “It was for old times’ sake.” She reached into her pouch and placed a scroll on the table, bearing the Inquisition’s seal. “As much as I have missed you, the Inquisition needs your help, my Lady, in the acquisition of a scroll.”

Chaudron chuckled and reached out for the scroll. “So I’ve heard,” she said. “I hear the rumours on the Velours Auction.”

“As informed as ever, I see,” Evelyn smiled as Chaudron broke the seal and unrolled the scroll.

“Would you expect me not to be, child?” she asked, her eyes running down the scroll, and she fell silent reading it, idly drawing from her pipe.

Evelyn was expecting no less from Chaudron, purveyor of secrets and favours. While no bard master herself, the Lady had ties enough to the bardic community, in particular the Bardic Master Evelyn had the dubious pleasure of learning from. No, what Lady Chaudron truly was, was a seller of favour - of luck, of love, of wealth, of power, of life and of death - all delicately bottled, and possibly magical, so the rumours go. The nobles playing the Game desperately enough would meet her for one of her little draughts, and would pay high prices for them. Even to the point of handing over their family masks, a contract to the Lady that she would have their favour when the time required. Or else.

“A simple purchase, I see,” Chaudron said finally, rolling up the scroll.

“You will be reimbursed with gratitude,” Evelyn said. Camelia entered once more, bearing a burnished tray laden with delicate porcelain teaware.

“I expect nothing less, Wren. And you will accompany me, of course.”

Camelia set the tray on the table. Teaware was not the only thing the elf had brought. Sitting between the gold-trimmed cups, was a black leather mask. Shaped with the feathers and beak of a wren and trimmed with blue silk, it was like seeing the face of an old, old friend. But it had been lost in the Hinterlands as she fled Redcliffe, along, she thought, with most of her old life in court. She looked up at Chaudron, who was watching her with amusement. “I think,” Chaudron said, “you will need your mask for this, little Bard, if you are going to join me in the Game.”

Evelyn nodded and reached out for the mask and all the shadows of her past she once thought lost. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably more symbolism in the chapter than I should have put in... heavy stuff. 
> 
> More fun capers coming, however! And stabbing! Evie stab all the things!


	7. The Bird May Love a Fish

In every hall, however bright, there are shadows. This hall was brighter than most. Three chandeliers of ostensibly a thousand candles were lit above a polished dance floor of the most precious oaks. Innumerable polished surfaces glittered in the candlelight and shamed the stars -  from the filigree and cherubs that adorned the wall, to the precious priceless artifacts on display along the walls. Gems were in season, and, from her little nook in the shadows, Evelyn personally found them unbearably distasteful.  The jewels that adorned the necks, gowns, shoes and powdered wigs of the gathered lords and ladies made them look like mice scurrying between the shattered remnants of a glass-blower’s accident. 

At least Bards did not require to dress in fashion. They had her own uniform - a harlequin coat with a short flaring skirt, a hood drawn over her head and face, and her wren mask upon her face. In the game, your real face didn’t matter, especially in her role. From her shadowy vantage point, she kept an eye on Chaudron, who lounged in a sitting area with some other nobles. Where the nobles took pains to dress in the subtle hues of ivory and golden cream, Chaudron was in a ruffled gown of the deepest wine red with silver accents. Her corset made her appear like a ripe berry and set off her round, rouged cheeks. She also wore a half mask of a black swan with spreading wings, and her gems around her neck were what looked to be black diamonds set in silver. 

Nobles walked the hall, strolling past the displayed artifacts on their pedestals. Attendants followed the silent auction, marking the names of their lords and ladies on the prized pieces. So far, in Evelyn’s line of sight, the scroll she was sent to retrieve was left alone. Few names were on the bidding sheet, and once Chaudron set her mark on it, others left the scroll alone. There would probably be a price to be paid for using Chaudron’s influence for the Inquisition, but she’d have to pay it later. 

Evelyn felt her skin prickle. 

“There is a mask I have not seen in a long time.”

Evelyn glanced sidelong at the man who approached her. Tall for an elf, movement as fluid as a dancer’s ribbon. Dark auburn hair framed a blue half mask bearing the mark of the fish, curled bowed lips she remembered well. Was he everything else she remembered? She steeled herself, hating that her heart skipped a beat at the sight of him, and forced a smile. “Guiscard of the Lyre,” she said, her voice sounding mildly pleased. “Should I start running?”

He sighed, a sound of quiet resignation. The gentle greens of his lavish tunic was set off by a delicate gold trim, calling to mind lush forest and the smell of earth, the soft feel of moss on her naked back -  _ stop! _ “Not yet,” he replied, his voice gentle and musical with his slight Orlesian accent, and almost sad. “Perhaps soon.”

“If I’m lucky, you’ll do no better this time,” she crossed her arms. He leaned on the wall next to her, holding his lyre with graceful fingers. “I was most vexed with you.”

“It was a command from our patron. And I had every faith in your ability, beautiful on-”

“You were determined in fulfilling the Viscomte’s command, Guiscard. Perhaps a little too determined. You hurt my feelings - and my arm.”

“Is that why you never wrote to me?”

She flashed him a smile. “I was waiting for you to send me a letter. A proper lady never makes the first move in courtship, good sir.”

The corners of Guiscard’s lips twitched slightly. “Ah, forgive me then. I should have known.”

“Yes, very remiss of you.” She turned her eyes back to the scroll. “Do you still serve the Viscomte?”

“No, our arrangement was terminated, just as he was.”

She looked at him slyly. “Hm? Did you tire of him too?”

“I object,” he said primly. “My loyalty has a price. And someone else paid better for it. I have a new patron now.”

A figure approached the scroll, and a liveried servant scribbled a name on the bidding sheet. “Oh?” Evelyn said. “I hope your new patron is more palatable than the good Viscomte. Indulge me, Guiscard, how did he die?”

“He ate some very bad fish. And yes, my new patron is adequate.”

Bad fish indeed. Evelyn knew the hand of a poisoner when she saw one.

Chaudron waved her pipe, and Camellia walked to the bidding sheet and made Chaudron’s mark beneath the new one. “I trust you have a new patron too?” Guiscard asked. 

“Yes, I do,” Evelyn replied. The other servant came again, and the scratching of the man’s quill could be heard through the music. “She does quite important work.”

Guiscard jerked his chin towards Chaudron, who once more sent her girl to the sheet. “You serve the Lady?”

“So curious, Guiscard?” Evelyn cooed 

Guiscard turned to meet her eyes -  _ eyes green like the forest crown that framed his body as he leaned over her that day _ . “I’ve missed you.”

Evelyn felt her heart shy from those words. She reached up, silken gloved fingers tracing his jaw. “You tried to kill me,” she purred.  

“You know our Code,” he replied, his voice washing over her. “Will you hold it against me?”

She leaned in, the smell of him heavy in her universe as she drew a breath. “Yes,” she whispered, and was viciously pleased to feel him shudder slightly under her fingertips. As petty as it was, it felt good to know she wasn’t the only one filled with regrets. She stepped away, the sound of bells ringing over the hall. He was not smiling as she let her fingers fall from his skin.

The auction was over with the tolling of the bells. Camelia stood attentively beside Chaudron even as servants bustled to retrieve their masters’ winning auction pieces and settle payment. The liveried servant from before hurried to the scroll. Evelyn had to contain her swearing as she left Guiscard to make her way through the nobles to Chaudron.

The air around Chaudron was heavy with the smell of Chaudron’s pipe smoke as she lounged leisurely. Evelyn bent to speak in the Lady’s ear, her hands behind her back almost casually. “My lady,” she murmured, keeping her voice tightly controlled. “We had a deal.”

“I am altering it,” Chaudron simply said and drew a breath from her pipe. “A singularly determined man, our dear Duke d’Onterre. I made my mark large and clear, but he outbid me anyway. How curious.” 

Evelyn’s eyes narrowed as the servant hurried away with the scroll, following a fully-masked man in a cream doublet and breeches, with foolish gemmed buckles on his boots. He grasped the scroll and, with his servant in tow, started to head for the doors. “Perhaps you’d like to satisfy that curiosity?” Chaudron simply said. 

Evelyn bowed. More work. But a noble going against the Lady was either a fool or feared something worse than Chaudron’s wrath. She left Chaudron on her lounge and made her way to the doors, glancing at the nook where she had stood before. Guiscard was gone. 

She sighed. Like the endless shifting seasons, all things must pass eventually. 

Time to get to work. 

 

+++++

 

There was pacing, footsteps upon carpet, muffled and continuous, but audible through the open crack of the door. The crinkle of parchment. A gentle rolling of wood upon a leather topped desk. “This,” a voice sounded, accented and thick, “is remarkable…”

“Yes, I hope you’re happy,” said another far more agitated voice with an Orlesian lilt to his words. “I had to bid against the Lady of the Cauldron! There will be more than money to pay for this insult.”

“She is a mere amateur,” for first speaker drawled dismissively. “You know you have nothing to fear with me around you. You are protected, my dear Duke.”

“You’d better be right, Marcius.” Pacing. Pacing. “All that for a ragged old piece of paper.”

“I do not expect you to understand,” Marcius chuckled. “Only to serve as you are required. This will further our cause, my Lord. It is a precious thing.”

A heavy sigh hung in the air. “Then you are leaving soon?” There was almost a hopeful note in the duke’s voice. 

“Come the morning.” Rolling of wood on the table, crinkle of parchment. “Secure this. You will accompany me. A loyal disciple should be rewarded.”

“Then… you mean…” Hope now rang in his words, naked and raw. 

“Yes.” 

The sound of parchment under eager fingers. The sliding of a drawer. Slamming of wood as the drawer shut. Keys jingled, and then a lock clicked. 

The sliver of light that spilled from the crack into the hallway widened, and two men emerged, both garbed in the finest of Orlesian silks. One was tall, wearing a mask of the d’Onterre family. He held a table lamp in an olive-skinned hand. The tall man looked left and right up and down the corridor, searching, wary.  The other was a man who looked like he was at the back of the line when chins were handed out. He was old, pale, skeletal hands holding up a brass key and locking the door behind him. They stood in their little pool of light, which glinted off the gemmed buckles on his boots. “Do you think he will see me?” asked the Duke. 

“You’ve done your duty,” said Marcius. “He will want to thank you personally.” They turned, walking down the hallway, their voices fading into murmurs as they discussed the trip in the morning. The glow of the lantern illuminated the faces of portraits of long dead ancestors in their gilt frames, watching the Orlesian leave with someone else… Tevinter by the sound of his accent. An unusual guest in an Orlesian manor indeed. The pool of light rounded a corner, and faded. Silence fell in the darkness of the hallway with only a sliver of moonlight from the tall windows at the far end. 

A figure dropped from the ceiling in silence, the dim silvery light dancing off her harlequin silks. Evelyn straightened up and twisted her torso. Damn. She wasn’t expecting them to take that bloody long. She was going to feel the strain of this in the morning. If she lived that long. She slipped her fingers into her sleeve and drew out a lockpick. She knelt before the lock and got to work. The click of the picked lock seemed like thunder in the silence. But it wasn’t, she knew. It was just her heart racing, as it always did when she infiltrated manors. The lockpick disappeared up her sleeve as she stood and opened the door. 

The room beyond was an office, filled with moonlight from the tall window behind the desk. Laden bookshelves lined the walls, surrounding a grand oak desk. Shafts of moonlight fell across the dark leather tabletop. She headed to the desk, her soft boots silent upon the carpet. Drawers on either side of a plush leather chair. She tried the drawers. One she pulled open bore maps, hastily shoved and crumpled. A quick glance through another revealed estate accounts. Nothing out of the ordinary so far. She knelt, her lockpick glinting in the moonlight. 

The lock was more cunning than the door, but she was a bard. Another lock pick appeared and she delicately worked the lock. She could feel the beads of sweat upon her upper lip. The lock finally clicked. She hid the picks up her sleeve and pulled open the drawer silently. She peered in. Parchment inside. She rifled through it. Import papers. The duke shipped quite a lot, it seemed, from Ferelden to Seheron… Nothing unusual, though, but perhaps useful. Trade with the Qunari? Naughty indeed. 

But there was no scroll. She frowned, pushing aside parchment. Her fingers touched the bottom of the drawer. Fingertips drew along the wood on the drawer bottom on the inside as her other hand felt the drawer bottom from the outside. A false bottom. Amateur. She traced her fingers across the drawer on the outside for a catch of some sort. She couldn’t see in the darkness. 

Footsteps. 

She shut the drawer and pulled out a vial, crushing it in her hand. She faded into the shadow as the lock clicked. She stayed still behind the desk, careful not to let her body brush against any surfaces. As silent as a serpent’s tongue, her garotte emerged from around her wrists under her sleeves, stretched between her two hands.  

The door clicked shut, but there was no golden glow of a lamp. She clung to the shadows, carefully peering around the table. “I know you’re here,” she heard a figure by the door say. Even in the moonlight she could discern the shape of his fish shaped mask. She let the garotte wire spin out as she leapt from behind cover. 

She let the garotte wire fly, spinning from her hands as she leapt, almost lassoing the wire around his neck. A hand shot out, catching her wire, pulling it taught even as she drew another loop. He hooked it with an elbow and drew her in with a twist of his torso. She caught the back of his knee with her heel as he widened his stance, bracing against his momentum. But he moved with her leverage and pulled her with the wire she still gripped. She rolled over his back, catching her feet under her, her body chilling with the shadow potion brushing apart against him. She leapt back from his sweeping kick, rounding as she reached for her blade in her boot. His dagger flashed in the air as it swiper at the garotte wire. She dove in as he swung at the wire and aimed for his throat. Both of them froze in a sudden tableau, their robes still flaring from their movement and the last of her shadows falling from her body. Her blade had stopped at his neck. She felt could feel the heat of an arm near her legs, and the pommel of a dagger against the inside of her thigh. 

She stared Guiscard down, her eyes blue shards in the moonlight. “I should slit your throat, you son of a bitch,” she breathed. 

“How much did you want children, Wren?” he asked coolly. “Let’s just back off.”

She bit back her swear, her mind chilling as she stepped back. He followed suit, their footsteps drawing them away from each other, barely out of dagger’s reach. Both of their blades held steady. The garotte lay on the carpet like so much fallen spider silk. 

“Of all the houses, Wren…” Guiscard murmured. 

“You lost the right to sound regretful the day you decided to hunt me down, Guiscard,” she said evenly, her blade as still as the earth. “Don’t try to sound apologetic now. I have a mission.”

“Is this new patron worth your life?” Guiscard snapped, his own dagger as still as Evelyn’s.  

“Oh, the patron is probably not. But maybe the cause she stands for is.”

“What?” Guiscard could not hide the surprise in his voice. “Cause? When have you cared about causes?”

Her lips parted slightly. “I don’t know.”

He stilled, his dagger beginning to lower. “This isn’t the Wren I know.”

This isn’t the Wren she knew either, she thought to herself. “Maybe I’ve changed.”

“As have I.” That softness in his voice, familiar, gentle, welcoming. It was what she loved about him in the past. It was what made the sting of his betrayal so painful. She steeled herself. Not now. 

“Any more talking and we should just send for some tea,” Evelyn drawled. “I will take that scroll. I would prefer if I didn’t have to kill you to do it.”

"I would prefer if I didn’t have to kill you to stop you,” Guiscard said. “We’ll do it by the Code then. First mark.” His dagger flashed in the moonlight as he raised, a rearing snake in night. 

Their feet moved in time, both charging. She knew him and his style, they had trained and worked together. She stabbed for his head. Guiscard parried with a blade, striking out at her with the second dagger. Evelyn leaned out of the dagger strike, her other hand freeing her garotte wire. Its weighted end looped around his ankle as she spun out of his grasp, her body low to the ground. He stepped out and pinned the wire to the ground with his foot. She slashed our for his knee. His arm blocked her strike. She twisted around, catching the arm and throwing him with his momentum. He tumbled across the room and rolled up, gasping as he swatted her thrown dagger away just in time. 

The fire in her spine was sudden and distinct, something she had never felt before - then every muscle seized, screaming with a symphony of pain as her body unfolded from her crouch. Guiscard froze, staring at her. Like a frozen marionette, a thousand swords in every limb, her skin like nails against her muscles as her body was forced up, arching back as her scream echoed through the room.

“What’s--” Guiscard gasped, his voice sounding distant over the agonizing ringing in her ears. She grit her teeth, biting back her scream. The door clicked open. Frozen in her rictus, she could only move her eyes. The door clicked open, and the men returned, one bearing a staff in one hand, and the lamp in the other. The staff was glowing, topped with the head of a dragon, and trained on her. Following him was the Duke, holding a drawn crossbow in his shaking hands. “My lord,” Guiscard lowered his daggers. “I must protest! The Code--” There was real anger in Guiscard’s voice.

“Does your little lyre boy dictate what you do, my lord?” drawled Marcius. 

“Be quiet, Guiscard,” snapped the Duke. “This is for the greater good - this is good. I don’t have to tell you anything.”

“With all due respect I must protest! The Bards have a Code! A Code you agreed to when you engaged me! The nobility cannot interfere--”

“Shut up, Guiscard!” The Duke screamed, spittle flying from his lips. 

Marcius walked up to Evelyn, slow deliberate steps. “And who is this little bird?” he enquired. 

Evelyn eyeballed him even as she felt her chest was about to burst through her eyeballs. The staff was lowered slightly, and the pain subsided enough for her to gasp through the glowing shield. “Who sent you, little bird?” Marcius asked. 

That accent, that staff - Tevinter! “Dealing with Magisters now, my lord?” Evelyn asked. “A bit low for the Game, no?”

A hand grasped her neck, nails biting into her skin, piercing pain amplified through her body. “Who sent you?” Marcius growled. “And for what purpose?”

She chuckled. “Your mother. She deeply regrets not swallowing the cum that spawned you like a good whore should.”

The blow came swift and sudden, Marcius’s backhand striking her across the cheek, her mouth filling with hot blood. She could feel the anger from him, feel the rage and his spell fired anew. She grit her teeth, willing herself not to scream. But it was too much. Every pulse of the spell felt like she was being torn in half. The pain caught her voice and lent it wings. Her scream echoed in the room, tearing through the dark manor. The ceiling blurred in and out of focus as droplets of blood floated from her parted lips. Warm blood flowed from her nose, trickling upwards, rising to the eggshell blue ceiling.

There comes a time when the body surrenders. She must have fainted for a blessed moment, but upon waking the pain seared through her again, her body arching as she struggled in the field. “--ust kill her already!” she heard the Duke cry out over her screams. “The noise!”

“You are soft, my lord,” Marcius said, holding his staff out towards her.

She had to break out of this - if she died here, no one would take care of Ehren. And yet, she had no idea how. What could she do from in the field? She couldn’t even form words beyond the guttural scream the fought to hold in. For the briefest of heartbeats, she wished she had a Templar with her. Lysette. Or even Cullen would do. 

Marcius smiled then. “Perhaps our little lyre boy would like to do the honor,” he said. “He has knives after all.” 

Her eyes met Guiscard’s, who watched her from the other end of the room, his daggers still drawn. The whole time he watched, as silent as the grave. No mercy in those forest green eyes, so carefully empty.

“Yes,” the Duke said. “Yes. Kill her, Guiscard.”

Guiscard walked towards Evelyn, his feet silent on the ground, Marius watching them both from the doorway with the Duke. Evelyn, for the first time in a long time, felt a yawning pit of fear in her stomach open, and she pulled against the bonds of the field, every tendon and ligament twisting inside her. 

Every step Guiscard took resonated in her ears now like the breath of the earth. How easy it was to fall before a mage like Marcius. There was no escape, no way out. Then everything stilled as she saw that familiar tightness to his shoulders as he raised the dagger and threw it. It hung in the air, frozen in a moment stretched out to eternity. Then it slammed into Marcius’s throat. Blood sprayed in the air, the dagger crunching against vertebrae. The field flickered weakly around her, and she saw Marius flash with one last burst of mana as he fell, the flame from his lamp flashing across the room. She saw the tendrils of fire like dancing wisps spreading across the books as the lamp exploded, filling the room with the hot searing glow of flame. Then the thunk of the crossbow bolt thundered. And Guiscard froze as the Duke stared on in horrified surprise as the fore bloomed across the bookshelves. 

The field dissipated from her body like the last whispers of rain, and Evelyn’s feet touched the ground, her body tumbling forward like a ragdoll, weak, helpless. As she fell, mirroring her fall like a mockery from the universe, Guiscard too fell back. It was the slow fall of a titan surrendering to the embrace of the earth, a bolt in his eye, a bow of blood hanging in the air.

_ Forest green eyes looking down on her in their embrace.  _

She felt her mind turn to ice. A hand caught the carpet, her fist closing tighter around her dagger, every trill of pain in her body the song of the tempest, the bitter poison of loss in her mind lent wings to her fury. The Duke’s eyes widened, hands frantically pulling at the bowstring to reload the crossbow. He whimpered, face pale, runny eyes bulging as she closed in like the fist of the Maker himself.

She aimed for the eyes, her blade arcing across them both, the satisfying tearing of flesh in her ears as her dagger seared through them. Hot blood fell upon her cheek and his guttural cries of agony soared with her symphony of pain. She straightened up, the duke yelling out as he writhed in agony behind her, clutching at his bleeding eyes and stumbling against the searing bookshelves. 

She walked over to Guiscard, her body fueled by the fires of her anger and the venom of her vengeance. He lay sprawled back on the carpet, the yellow glow of the burning shelves dancing on his mask, searing heat dried her tears as they fell. 

The Duke was screaming now, crouching on the ground and holding his eyes as the blood pooled around him. She walked around Guiscard, and past the screaming Duke, the sound of burning books heavy in her ears. She pulled out the locked drawer and drew out a folded cloth pouch from under her bodice. She rolled up as many documents as she could gather from within the drawer and stuffed them into the pouch. Then she tied it over her shoulder and across her chest. There were bells ringing now, as the neighbourhood awoke to the glow of the flames in the window. 

In the light of the flames, she could see better, the small catch in the side of the drawer rail. She clicked it, and the bottom of the drawer popped up. Within, was the scroll. She drew it out and tucked it into the pouch to the chorus of the Duke’s agonised cries, punctuated by the thumping of his head on the bloody floor. She stood, and looked down on Guiscard. 

There was no time for feeling on a mission. But there was the Code. She reached down, her fingers caressing his cheek. Never again would he sing. Her jaw tensed, fingers closing around the mask as she gently untied it. She lifted it off his face, and forced herself to look.

One more nightmare to add to the list. 

The fires licking across the carpet now. The Duke screamed, recoiling from the fire. “Help me!” he whimpered. Evelyn stood up, staring at him shying from the flames, his eyes a mess of blood and gore. “Help me! Please!” He groped for her, crimson soaked fingers pleading. 

Evelyn stepped away, her footfalls silent, and headed to the door. 

She shut it behind her, with only the ghost of a click lost to the thunder of the flames. 

 

+++++

 

_ There was a song he used to sing to her. When they sat around the fire, quiet pockets of peace. He could always speak to her in a way that calmed her, soothed her, his voice a balm upon her soul. Then, he would sing, just the sound of his voice and the notes of the lyre falling like gentle rain… Whenever she was troubled, broken, lost, he would sing.  _

_ He sang for her when she wept for Ehren, too. _

She remembered that song. It rang in her ears as she fled from the scene of the fire, the scroll safe along with some other information that might be of value. The Duke was probably dead. And if he wasn’t, it was another savage result of the Game. A few words in the right places that he was consorting with Tevinter would ruin him. Not only with all the Bardic Houses, but with all the guilds and other nobles in the city as well. He deserved it. 

It did not take her long to deliver the scroll to the Enchanter in his modest home above an illuminator’s shop in the city. Clever man. It was easy to hide among scrolls and books if one worked as an illuminator. By the time the Enchanter had penned a response to the Inquisition, dawn was already staining the sky with streaks of silver. The streets were growing busy. With her pouch safely in hand, she headed back to Chaudron’s home. 

Evelyn couldn’t remember how she made her way back to Chaudron’s when she finally woke up in a dark cellar. It was pleasantly cool and very damp as she lay down on the rickety cot among the wine barrels stored there. Beside her cot, was a single lit tallow candle on a saucer next to two masks, a wren and a fish. Her hand reached for the pouch, and she felt the bundled parchment within. She sat up and opened her cloth bag, the smell of charred papers reaching her nose. For an irrational moment, her heart skipped a beat. But nothing was seared, it was simply the smell of the air from within the bag… 

She shut her eyes, breathing deeply, trying to calm herself. Memories of last night were not worth replaying. He was not worth it. He betrayed her, hurt her. But the loss of him still stung deeper than she cared to admit. She opened her eyes, blue shards in the candlelight. Such was the life of a bard. It did not promise a long life expectancy. 

At the foot of her cot was her folded farmer boy clothing, and a basin and washcloth on a stool. The water was ice cold from sitting in the cellar, but it was heaven to clean the soot from her body. Then, she changed into her farmer boy clothes and bundled her silks into her cloth bag. She eyed the masks by the candle and picked up hers. The fish mask shifted as she did. 

Evelyn hesitated. And then she reached out to grab it. She had no time to consider this now. She had a task for the Commander to settle. She’d keep the mask and settle what to do with it later. She stuffed it into her pouch and blew out the candle. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is unbeta-ed. So sorry for the weird typos. I try to catch as many as I can. Anyway, let me know what you think? This chapter was a little longer than usual :P


	8. Lord Luci-Arse

The man named Barnabus was one Evelyn was familiar with. She knew of his shop in the Summer Market, selling strange little trinkets from questionable places. He had a carpet out under an open tent, his silver and pewter wares spread out on little boxes covered with greasy silks. He looked up at her as she approached “I don’t think you can afford my wares, little boy,” he said, drawling behind the mask. 

“I’m not here to buy, but to deliver,” she replied, dropping her voice to that of a boy. “This is for a very Worthy dwarf. From Commander Cullen.”

The letter was snatched out of her grasp and vanished upon his person faster than she could blink. 

“Make sure the letter gets to him,” she said. 

“What letter?”

She smiled. “My mistake.” Someone bumped into her from behind, hurrying towards the centre of the market. Evelyn tiptoed to get a better look. “Need a box to stand on?” Barnabus asked drily. 

“I’ll send my laugh to you in writing,” she said with a wave, and joined the crowd. Not a moment too soon. She had to get into position. Keeping her hand on her pouch sidepouch, her fingers felt the shapes of the masks within. Better be safe. Crowds offered no end of opportunity to pickpockets. Not that it would be a problem, but breaking a man’s fingers - even a pickpocket’s - always made the guards jumpy. 

“Good people of Val Royeaux, hear me!” 

Over the clamor of the gathered throng in the Summer Market, the terse silence of the City Guard and the flutter of wings from the ever-present pigeons, a voice rose. In the distance, the bells of the Grand Chantry tolled as the Mother raised her arms to the sky. The market quietened as eyes turned to the Mother, standing on a raised platform and flanked by an imposing looking Templar and lesser priestesses. 

The white of her robe caught the light of the sun, making her gleam as if in the holy fires themselves. From Evelyn’s place in the crowd, the Mother did strike a grand presence. “Together, we once mourn our Divine Justinia. Her naive and beautiful heart, silenced by treachery,” the Mother tolled on, her face stern. 

Evelyn glanced through the crowd, catching the eye of a stocky dwarf wearing plain leathers. Lace nodded slightly at her and then jerked her head. Evelyn followed her gaze, seeing the crowd parting as two figures approached the stage. “You wonder what will become of her murderers,” said the Mother. Maxwell and Cassandra walked through the parted crowd like a wolf parting the wheat of the field and stood before the stage. “Well,” the Mother breathed. “Wonder, no more.”

She gestured to Maxwell, whom Evelyn was glad to see wearing armor. To the side of him, inching her way forward through the crowd, Lysette caught her eye. There were blades around Maxwell, just in case. Order of the Inquisition’s council. The Mother’s robes fluttered as she waved her arm, slicing her palm accusingly through the air at him. “Behold! The so-called Herald of Andraste, claiming to rise where our beloved fell. We say this is a false prophet - no servant of anything beyond his selfish greed!” 

Evelyn watched Maxwell, his jaw tensing at the Mother’s words. He really needs to control his tells. “Enough!” Maxwell snapped. “I will not listen to these self-serving lies! We came here to talk!”

“It’s true,” Cassandra added. “The Inquisition seeks only to--”

Evelyn tensed, the feel of the crowd changing. She looked over her shoulder away from the stage. The thunder of steel-clad men walking in stepped rose as the crowd hurriedly parted once more. 

She stopped herself from reaching for her blade, but let her steps draw her closer to Maxwell. The faces of the crowd grew wary, yet tinged with the morbid excitement of a show that possibly promised blood. “--already too late!” the Mother boomed. Templars mounted the stage, led by a man with sallow skin and swept back hair of ash gray. “The Templars have returned to the Chantry! They will face this “Inquisition” and the people will be safe once more!” 

Evelyn stepped closer to Maxwell, Lace moved through the growing restless crowd too. Evelyn’s hand heared her blades under the leather vest she wore. 

Maxwell did not move as the Templars faced him. Evelyn saw one raise a fist and, like a meteor, struck the Mother down. The gasp spread through the crowd like lightning across a stormy sky. Maxwell stood still, the rock in the storm.

“Still yourself, she is beneath us,” the voice of the ash-gray Templar said. Evelyn recognized the insignia on his shoulder. The man was high up in the Chantry, to be able to wear the sigil of a Seeker. She frowned. Wait, that wasn’t right. Templars did not follow the orders of Seekers, they were policed by them. 

“Huh,” Maxwell crossed his arms. “I thought you’d be here to deal with the Inquisition.”

“As if there were any reason to,” sneered the man on stage. The crowd stepped away, giving the Templars and their blades a wide berth. Already the crowd was thinning at the back, the more squirmish of the gathered throng heading to safety. Lace was still in position, as was Lysette. But against a dozen armored Templars, what good were they? 

“Lord Seeker!” Cassandra called out as the Seeker stood on stage next to the fallen Mother. “Lord Seeker Lucius, it is imperative that we--”

“You will not address me,” his voice drawled. He turned on Cassandra and Maxwell. “Creating a heretical movement, raising a puppet as Andraste’s prophet - you should be ashamed! You should all be ashamed! The failed no one when they left the Chantry to purge the Mages.”  Evelyn’s hand twitched as the glow of rage filled her cheeks. Purge - as if the Mages were a plague to be dealt with. “You are the ones who have failed!” Lucius went on. “You who would leash our righteous swords with doubt and fear. If you came to appeal to the Chantry, you are too late.” Evelyn longed to wipe the sneer from the Lord Seeker’s face. “The only one whose destiny demands respect is mine!” 

Maxwell stepped forward, speaking not the Lord Seeker. “Templars! One of your own commands the Inquisition’s forces,” he called out. “Join us, as he did!” 

Lucius burst out laughing then, a sound that seemed so strange from his lips. “A staunch and loyal member of the order!” he sneered. “So loyal that he abandoned them for a false Herald!” 

“Should he abandon his duties for vainglory then?” Maxwell asked. “Or is that more your style than his?”

“You--” Lucius growled. A hand from one of the recruits touched his elbow. 

“Lord Seeker,” said the young man with swarthy skin and a look of… uncertainty about him. Evelyn could see it in his eyes. “What if he really was sent by the Maker? What if--” 

Another stepped up, cutting him off with a shove to the shoulder. The look “You are called to a higher call,” said the Templar. “Do not question.”

And there, in that Templar’s eyes, Evelyn saw that look she had learned to hate. Knowing. Certain that their course was right - even sanctioned by the Maker himself. To strike, to kill, to purge-- She pulled her hand away as she felt the presence come up behind her. Lysette looked at her with hard eyes and put a hand on Evelyn’s shoulder. Evelyn had not realized she was shaking until she felt Lysette’s steady grip. 

“I will make the Templar order a power that stands against the void,” Lucius intoned. “We deserve recognition. Independence!” Gauntlets clanged on breastplates in salute. He pointed a finger at Maxwell, who stared it down. “You, on the other hand, have shown me nothing. And the Inquisition? Less than nothing.” He swept his hand to his sword pommel, the sunlight glinting off the cold steel of his armor. “Templars! Val Royeaux is unworthy of our protection. We march!” 

The Templars walked off stage, following their leader. The buzz began to spread through the throng like wildfire. Templars. Abandoned. Hopeless. Then the guards came. Evelyn watched as the mage elf Solas and Varric walked up to Maxwell and Cassandra through the crowd, but the guards were already dispersing the whispering nobles and commoners alike. As the crowd thinned, a sense of normality was coming over the Summer Market once more. Evelyn eyed the crowd as Lace sauntered over. Already some were gathering, whispering among themselves between the market stalls. “They don’t look happy,” said Lace, wearing a simple garb of leather, not unusual for a dwarf merchant. 

“Who would?” Evelyn said, crossing her arms. “The Templars are gone. I knew they were spineless but this is ridiculous even for them.” She felt eyes on her and glanced up at Lysette, who was glaring at her. “Present company excepted.” She bit her lip. “Sorry.”

“Let’s get to the matter at hand, shall we?” Lysette said, her voice tight. 

“We need to send a bird back to Sister Nightingale,” Lace said. “Lysette, you hang about and watch the Herald. Incognito.” She paused, looking the armored woman up and down. “As incognito as you can make it. Evelyn, you have leave to settle the Commander’s task.”

“Already done,” Evelyn murmured. “I’m… done. With everything I was sent here to do, at least. Including this last security detail. I just need to report back to Haven.” And probably get yelled at, she thought in the privacy of her mind. The Duke was not supposed to die. Then again, neither was Guiscard. A lot of things went wrong that night. 

Lace nodded. “Then you head back to the camp. You’ll want to settle your other mission back at Haven.”

 

+++++

 

The fires were flickering in the Inquisition Camp. As much as Evelyn supposed Maxwell would prefer the comforts of the city, being from the main branch of the family, she could see the wisdom in camping beyond the city walls. The camp was a simple one,set up in the pasture field of a very well-compensated farmer. 

Evelyn sat at the edge of the camp, her tent small enough for one, and her fire burning with a small pot bubbling over it. A bath had not helped to wash the feeling of filth still on her body, nor sooth the ache in her bones and deep muscles from the Marcius’s torture. Changing into her Inquisition uniform did not put any distance between her and Guiscard’s death. She held a tin cup full of hot toddy, curled up in a blanket over her shoulders as she sat by her fire, staring into the flames. She hugged her knees and sipped from the cup. The tea warmed her tongue, and soothed her throat with the gentle comfort of whiskey. 

She heard familiar footsteps then, and swore inwardly. “Finally,” Maxwell said, stepping up beside her. 

She looked up at him with her jaw stuck out pugnaciously. He had forgone his armor, wearing only a vest and a linen shirt with breeches. He was carrying a bottle with him. “Herald,” she said tersely. “We talked about this.”

“Andraste said I should spend time with my baby cousin,” he shrugged and sat down beside her. He sighed and set down a bottle of West Hills brandy. “You wouldn’t disobey Andraste, would you? Besides, I have brandy.”

“You should not be at the edge of camp,” she grated, trying to keep her voice down. “And in no armor!” 

“Want to drink in my tent?” he asked, filling the two cups with a generous helping of brandy.

“That’s even worse! Everyone will see me with you!” 

“Guess we’ll just have to drink here, then,” he said, handing her the cup of brandy. “What’s that? Tea?”

She sighed in resignation and drained the last bit of her cup.“Toddy,” she replied taking the brandy. 

“Hah! Warms the old bones, hm? Like Cullen.”

“He drinks toddy?” she blinked. “Not the blood of mages?”

“I don’t think blood of mages helps with headaches,” said Maxwell breezily as their cups clinked. “And that comment was beneath you.”

She said nothing, staring into the flames, her fingers curling tighter around her cup. She lowered her eyes and sipped the brandy. 

“So,” Maxwell chirped. “How much brandy do I ply you with before you tell me what’s wrong?”

She tsked in irritation. “You’ve got better things to do than worry about my problem’s, Maxie,” she snapped. 

“Ugh,” Maxwell winced. “You’ve no idea. But I got my baby cousin with me. She doesn’t give two shiny shites that I’m Herald of Andraste. Probably thinks it bullshit - which it is.” He sipped his brandy.

Evelyn snorted into her cup. “You’ve got that right at least, snot-eater.”

“Fart-sniffer,” he grinned at her. “That’s nice, you know.”

“Sniffing farts?”

“No.” He swatted the back of her head as she sniggered. “Being Not The Herald. You’ll have to tell me if sniffing farts is nice or not.”

“I only did that once, by the way,” she said, pushing her hair back from the swat. “And you dared me!” 

“You told Mother I ate snot!”

“You did!” Evelyn grinned. “And bit your fingernails too - Maker your hands were disgusting!” She leaned over to refill his cup with brandy. “And the time you dared me to eat hay for a week? And Ehren heard about it and had to--” Her words died in her throat as her heart grew empty. She froze. 

Maxwell was watching her in silence as she lowered the bottle. “Well,” she murmured. “I guess you should know.”

She drained her brandy. Maxwell topped it up, the clinking of the bottle against the cup heavy in the silence. “He’s tranquil,” she murmured. She reached out to stir her pottage. It helped to keep the hands busy. “Loved a farm girl, used to sneak out. They got married, too. I attended their little ceremony. I was at Redcliffe gathering information anyway. Her name was Miranda.” Her voice faded into silence. The words were difficult. Like pulling teeth. She drew a breath. “The Templars caught up to him. The ones from Kinloch? Made him tranquil and killed Miranda and their baby. Once the Circle revolted, I lost track of him.”

“But he wasn’t an abomination, was he?”

“Of course not, don’t be foolish. But they branded him anyway, thanks to Cullen’s Kirkwall Procedure.”

She did not look up at Maxwell as she stirred her pottage, but she did see his grip around his cup tighten, his knuckles whitening. She gingerly lifted the pot off the fire and perched it on its legs. She reached for another bowl from her pack and filled them both with helpings of pottage. 

She settled down beside him once more, and held out the pottage bowl to him. He took it, and she felt his hands trembling. “Fuck,” he breathed at last. She glanced at him, unsurprised to see his cheeks wet. “Fuck… No one said anything…”

“I doubt they would. This isn’t your business, technically.” Evelyn said.

“He is my family!” Maxwell’s voice cracked with despair. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know.” Her words were hard. It made saying them easier. “The Free Mages at Kinloch buggered off. Took him with them, I imagine. Tranquil don’t say no.” She glanced at him and felt herself steel as she saw his glistening eyes. It had always been that way since they were children. Maxwell always wore his heart in his sleeve. Evelyn annoyed everybody even as a child, and Ehren… Ehren, being the eldest, was their beacon of calm intellect, guiding them both. “Stop crying, Maxie,” she said automatically. 

“He wasn’t at the Conclave, was he?” Maxwell gasped, colours draining from his cheeks. 

“No,” Evelyn’s word cut through her own doubt like hot steel. “No. He wasn’t. He can’t have been.”

“How would you know?” Maxwell demanded, his cheeks now stained with tears. “Tranquil don’t say no. What if he--” 

“Shut up!” Evelyn’s bowl of pottage sailed out of camp, bouncing forlornly on the grass. “Shut up, shut up, shut up! He wasn’t at the Conclave! He can’t have been! He can’t be dead! You’re alive - it’s a fucking miracle, but you’re alive. And he can’t be dead. Ehren is alive! First Papa, then Mama, then you, then Guiscard and now even Ehren - The Maker can’t take everyone from me!”

Maxwell stared at her, his mouth ajar. “Eve--”

“They killed her and broke him, Maxwell!” she snarled. “And he can’t be dead - What kind fucking cruel Maker would that be huh? Why don’t you tell me that, Herald of fucking Andraste? You can’t. So you just shut up--”

A hand grabbed her wrist, pulling her off balance, and her universe was filled with warm arms. She choked back a sob threatening to treacherously break free. She pushed against his chest. “Let go of me, what will people think when they see?” she hissed.

But he held her fast. “No,” he said, his tears hot on her ears as she tried to squirm free. “And I don’t give two shiney shites what people think.”

“You’re an idiot!” 

“I’m not bloody letting you go. I should be dead. You could be crying for me,” he murmured, and she felt his chest heaving as his voice cracked. 

“I don’t cry for people who are dead,” she growled, hitting his chest with her fist. “Bards don’t cry. We have a Code. We live by it, and then we die.”  _ And there it was, that resonant voice in the forest singing, singing… Back before the orders to hunt her down came. _

“I hear you,” he soothed, drawing heavy breaths, the heaving of his chest growing shallower. “I hear you, baby sister.”

“And I’m not your baby sister, young master!” She looked up at him. “And stop being reasonable. You are not reasonable.”

“You’re wrong,” Maxwell murmured. “You are my baby sister. The one I was proud to let push me off the side of the pool. And the one I’m not letting go, even if she’s as stubborn as a mule and smells like one too. But you’re right about one thing. I’m not the reasonable one. Ehren was the reasonable one.”

Evelyn froze, her fists on his chest. 

“And you can tell him all about your code when you find him. I have… I have this Herald thing I must do. But you will find him and talk his ear off about your code, and about Guiscard, and--”

“Not Guiscard.” She gripped the linen of his shirt. “Not Guiscard.”

She felt his hand tighten on her shoulder. “What happened?” he breathed. 

_ Her running footsteps played a frenzied staccato on the roof as she fled, leaping from one shambled insula of the Alienage to the next. Behind her, her pursuer raced, closing in, but never close enough. All she had to do was get beyond the city, and he duty would be fulfilled. Right? Just to the edge of the city, she could see the white stone city walls beyond the alienage. Then, there was pain. The blade had cut deep, thrown wildly by Guiscard - perhaps on purpose, perhaps not...  _

_ It cut her thigh just as she leapt from the roof to the next. The moment the blade hit her, she knew her leap was doomed. She fell from the moonlight into a pool of shadow, washing lines, wooden awnings and Maker knew what else hitting her, pounding her body. Then there came the ground like the fist of the Maker himself, hitting her all at once. She had lain broken, a twisted ragdoll. Blood from her head was mixing with her tears. Above, outlined by moonlight, a figure appeared at the edge of the roof and looked down at her. Then it turned, and disappeared. _

She pushed Maxwell away, though he still held on to her shoulders. “It’s not important, Maxwell--”

He looked at her helplessly. “Wren,” he breathed. Hearing her childhood nickname from his lips brought memories of the spring sunshine as they ran through the estate gardens as children. His eyes were still glistening. She bit her lip. “You can’t keep all this in. Talk to me, please…”

She shook her head. “You can’t change what happened,” she murmured. She drew a deep breath and sighed heavily, getting herself under control. “I’m okay. I’m okay.”

“Maker, you were always stubborn!” Maxwell gave up and let her go. 

“We can’t both be crying,” she smiled weakly. She glanced at the tipped bowl of pottage by his feet. “We’ve both gone and dropped our pottage.”

Maxwell shook his head. “Your bardy tricks won’t work on me,” he said gently. “But that’s alright. We’re together again. I’m going to make sure I’m here to put you back together should you break.”

She groaned and sat back, resting her arms on her knees. “Maxie… Maker’s breath,” she said, running her hand through her hair. She decided to just let the matter drop. It was the safest way. The more one told Maxwell not to do something, the more obstinate he became to fulfill it. She struck out for a new subject. “So the Templars buggered off.”

“Thanks to Lord Luci-Arse,” he said, reaching for his cup. “I don’t care, though. We have the good ones with us.”

“Do we?” she asked. 

“I should think so. They left the Templars before it was the in-thing to do. And they left to make a difference, to do good.” He glanced at her. “Like Cullen.”

“I didn’t ask about Mr Stupid Coat,” she said, reaching for the bottle of brandy and drinking straight from it. “I lost my cup somewhere.”

Maxwell grinned at her, seeming to appreciate her lack of manners. He set his cup aside and took a long drag from the bottle too. “I’ll let you work out Mr Stupid Coat,” he said as he leaned back on one hand, looking up at the stars, his eyes thoughtful. He handed the bottle to her. “Yes, I think that would be best.”

“Stop being reasonable.”

“One of us has to be. Till Ehren comes back.”

A silence hung in the air for a breathless moment, filled with the infinite vision of hope. 

“Yeah,” Evelyn said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Too much talking? Not enough stabbing? Ugh, I with Evie and Cullen would kiss already blehhhh *ded*


	9. Cocky Little Thing

Cullen stared at the report unrolled on the war table, leaning his face on his gloved fingers. Leliana sat opposite him, staring at him as he wore a mask of pure puzzlement. “You really have no idea why the Templars might leave?” Leliana asked, looking at him over her steepled fingers. 

“None whatsoever,” Cullen frowned. “That’s the Maker’s truth. This is madness. The Templars may have strayed in the execution of their duty, but they would never leave the Chantry. Least of all to follow the Lord Seeker.”

“Why not?”

"He isn’t universally loved, particularly not by Templars who have skirted the edge of endorsed procedure.” He picked up the missive and read it once more. “You who would stay our righteous swords with doubt?” he read. “Did he really say that?”

“Lace has an excellent memory.”

“Maker’s breath. They truly have gone mad,” he shook his head. 

“If I am not mistaken, the Lord Seeker can take command of the Templars.”

“Only in the event of an emergency,” Cullen said. “And only if the Divine commands it.”

“Times are difficult now. It is possible that the Lord Seeker deems it an emergency.”

“That is possible, but,” Cullen looked down at the missive, “We deserve recognition? Independence? From what? We are there to serve the Chantry, to protect mages and people alike!”

“Not everyone agrees with their methods,” Josephine piped up from her seat at the table. 

“No,” Cullen said evenly. “Not everyone does. Not even other Templars, sometimes.”

“You can think of no reason why they would leave?” 

Cullen grunted and sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. The throbbing in his temple was not helping him think straight. “I can think of several,” he admitted. “Some of my brothers and sisters do feel like their devotion and service has been taken for granted. Many are villainised when the mages rebelled. I can understand their frustration.” He threw the missive down onto the middle of the table. “What I cannot understand is their purpose for leaving. It’s senseless and, well, foolishly vain.”

“I hear they are gathering at Therinfal Redoubt.”

“That old place?” 

“Have you any idea what they might be doing there?”

He met her eyes, cold and blue, watching him intently. “Why do I get the impression I’m being interrogated here, Leliana?”

“Merely seeking insight,” Leliana replied. “You are the most experienced Templar among us now. Besides Rylen.”

“If you’re hoping I could provide that insight into the Templar’s motives, I’m afraid I cannot. There must be a way to ally with them, if we can make them see sense.”

“Perhaps that is not even necessary,” Leliana said. “Not now. We do not need the Templars. Just the Mages.”

“You have possibly three thousand elite knights camping in a fort and you want to leave them there? They are a valuable asset to our--”

“We are not becoming an army, Cullen,” Leliana said. 

“Truly? What have I been building over the past year then?” 

“I mean the immediate goal of the Inquisition is to heal the sky, not to build an army.”

“We don’t know what magic caused that Breach or the mark. Now you want to pour more magic into it? Do you even know what would happen?”

“No, do you?” Her words bore a shade of challenge. 

“I do not,” he replied evenly. “I do know what happens to a spell when I dampen it. With enough Templars countering the vibrations in the Veil--”

“A fireball is not the same as the Breach, Commander.”

“With all due respect, Sister Leliana, they are all to do with the veil, and Templars are trained to counter it. There are libraries of lore and research devoted to our effect on magic. All we have to support the mage alliance is the word of one man, no disrespect to Solas.”

“The Free Mage alliance could help bring them back into the fold,” Leliana said. 

“You said our immediate mission was the Breach, not legitimizing rebel mages.”

“This is getting us nowhere,” Josephine cut in, her quill swiping the air. “As much as we debate the matter, ultimately, it is not our decision to make. It lies with the Herald.” She cleared her throat, as if embarrassed by her outburst. “What matters now is that we must monitor the situation in Val Royeaux. The Wren reports the Duke of Arlington dead. That is most distressing. He was a close ally to the Council of Heralds and supportive of the Inquisition’s cause.”

“Yes,” Leliana murmured, leaning back in her chair. “I doubt the death was intended, but I will have a word with the Wren.”

Cullen glanced at Leliana, noting the silence that she now bore. She was impossible to read, and you knew that every word in her mind was weighed. Just because she said little, it did not mean there was nothing to be said. “Is she alive, though?” he asked. 

“The Wren?” Leliana blinked. “Of course. Uninjured, but the collateral damage was unnecessary. I will have to discipline her.”

Cullen leaned back, a barely audible sigh of relief leaving his lips. “What damage?” he asked.

“A dead Duke, his bard, and a manor burned down,” Josephine replied. 

Cullen stared at her. “That’s a lot of damage. Wasn’t she just supposed to get a scroll?”

“Yes,” Josephine frowned. “I understand that you court-martial-ed her as well, Commander?”

Cullen rubbed his throbbing temple. “I did,” he admitted. “She acted recklessly.”

“Did she?” Josephine glanced at Leliana. 

“As I said, I will speak to her,” Leliana said.

“If this bard is going to damage the Inquisition’s reputation--” 

“She has not done so yet,” Leliana said soothingly, smiling at her old friend. “There were other factors that led to the fire and the Duke’s death.”

“Do you know something we don’t?” Cullen raised a brow. He paused. “I realize that was a foolish question to ask the moment it left my lips.” 

Leliana chuckled. “I do, but not enough to put it before you both yet,” she admitted. “I will once I confirm certain facts. Regardless, I will rein her in.”

“Can the Inquisition afford such a liability?” Josephine sighed. “I do not mean to be harsh, but perhaps a posting for her somewhere where she can do no harm to our reputation would be best.”

Cullen felt a tinge of guilt coiling in his belly at the thought of that. She had a goal, one he wished he could have prevented-- He pushed the thought from his mind. No. He had to remain focused. There was a greater mission for the Inquisition than finding one Tranquil. Redemption was only tangential to his purpose here.

“Sending her away would probably not be approved of,” Leliana said, her gloved fingers tapping the armrest of her chair. “She has met Trevelyan, has she not?”

Cullen looked up at her. “I have seen them speaking, yes,” he said. “What does that have to do with the matter at hand?”

Leliana sighed. “Then perhaps there is something you should know about the Herald…”

 

 

++++

 

 

“There’s a shield in your hand, block with it! If this man were your enemy, you’d be dead!” Cullen barked over the clanging of sword against sword as the recruits trained. He turned to his the Templar standing behind him. “Lieutenant, the recruits must be ready for a real fight, not a practice one.”

“Understood, Commander,” the Templar saluted. 

Then a recruit tumbled in the snow, a shield bounced across the ground. The recruit’s leg swooped up and caught the wrist of her sparring partner on his sword's downswing with her foot. “Hey now!” Evelyn cried, her expression surprised. Cullen narrowed his eyes, seeing her leg wobble as she held the arm back with her foot. Her sparring partner, twice her size, grudgingly released the pressure. Evelyn picked herself up and dusted herself, looking at her partner a little uncertainly as the man glared at her with a hint of malice. 

Cullen walked over to the pair. Seeing him approach, both saluted. That was one thing Wren was learning. “Pick up your shield,” Cullen barked. Evelyn scurried to get her shield. Cullen glared at the other recruit, a man with messy straw hair and a broken nose, who looked guiltily away. “Watch yourself, recruit,” he said evenly. “There’ll be no killing of your comrades in my army.”

The soldier squirmed guiltily under his glare. Evelyn returned with her shield, strapping it on her arm. “Do you know what happens to a soldiers who loses his shield?” he snapped. 

“You yell at them,” she said immediately. Then caught herself. “I mean, they die?”

He glared. “Get your smart arse to the armory. Get those swords as sharp as your tongue.”

“Yes, Commander,” she muttered through grit teeth. She saluted before stalking off with some frustration in her step. 

 

++++

 

The armoury was a grand name for what the Inquisition stocked. It was a hut, with shelves of equipment and weapons. It was usually under the watch of the quartermaster, but with everyone being so short staffed, he took the effort to monitor it with a handful of troops and Herrit. There was someone in the armoury, however. The Wren sat on a stood beside a bucket of water. The rhythmic strokes of the whetstone on the blade was measured and precise. He entered and leaned on the doorframe, dregs of snow blowing in around his feet. 

She looked up at. “Commander,” she said, standing to make an effort to salute. 

It was good to see her learning. “At ease. You have a serious problem,” he said, crossing his arms.

She sat back down and picked up her whetstone and sword. “Which problem is that?” she asked. “That I can’t work well with others? That I get important Dukes killed? That I can’t stop talking when the time is right?”

“Awareness is a good first step,” he murmured. 

She set down the whetstone. From her seat on the milking stool, she reached out to replace the sharpened sword on the rack. Then she reached for another. “If this is about what I said earlier about you yelling--”

“I hear you’re the Herald’s cousin.”

She stilled as she held the sword. “Yes. I suppose the secret is out among all the Council.”

“It is.”

“Is it going to be an issue?” she asked.

Cullen tilted his head. “Should it be?”

She looked up at him with a weary glance. “Maxwell won’t waver, though,” she said, her voice firm. “He’s loyal, trained. Devoted. He knows his duty.”

Cullen said nothing, his eyes only boring into her.

Her grip tightened on the stone. “I didn’t want him to see me,” she admitted. “I didn’t want him involved with-- or even know about--” Her voice faltered.

“Your brother?” he spoke at last. 

He saw the tightening of her eyes. “Yes,” she breathed. The stone sighed along the blade edge. She blamed him. Part of him knew that it was unfair to blame him personally. But he also knew, that when looking for someone to blame, it was hard to hate a faceless organization. It was oh, so satisfying to hate an individual. As he did. Each and every mage, perhaps. But that was a long time ago. Healing came to everyone, or so he hoped. 

“Why shouldn’t he know?” Cullen asked, keeping his thoughts to himself. “You three are family.” Part of him curled away from the words leaving his lips. Had he even written to his own siblings? Not in years…

“He’s a bit more than Maxwell now, no?” Evelyn looked up at him, her blue eyes bearing that doll-like quality to her small features. “Herald of Andraste. I thought he’d been through enough, without worrying about me or Ehren. That’s all.” She looked down at the sword blade, her lashes lowering. “I was a little silly about that. I should have known better. He has good judgement.” She glanced up at him. “He said good things about you.”

Cullen blinked. “Oh?”

“He said the Inquisition got all the Good Templars.” She set down the stone. “Do we?” 

“That would depend on what you mean by ‘good’,” Cullen sighed. 

“Do good Templars stay while their fellows hurt Mages?” 

Ah, there it was. That edge to her voice he could keenly sense. A tendril of guilt coiled up in his gut, a serpent and an old friend.

“To some Templars, that is good,” he said quietly. “When mages turn, innocent people get hurt. Lots of them. Wounds unseen. It… turns you into something like them, maybe. Templars do what we must.”  _ Purple fire blinding him, visions of red on the walls and the hot iron smell of blood in the air. A defiling touch on the centre of the soul. _ Cullen sighed. “Maybe there are no good Templars,” he murmured. “Maybe no one’s good.”

She frowned slightly, her eyes uncertain. “Including you?”

He chuckled, a cold and cynical sound. “Perhaps, especially me. But life does not end at your mistakes. You atone. Find your way back, if you can.” He drew a breath and cleared his throat. “The same could be said for anyone, really. This isn’t purely a Templar’s burden.”

Evelyn lowered her eyes. “Life does not end at your  mistake?” she smiled, though her eyes looked distant, thoughtful. “You don’t know the good Sister Nightingale very well. I was honestly ready to run for my life when she called me in. Or try to run for my life. She’s a remarkable shot.”

“That’s what I came to talk to you about,” he said.

She laughed sheepishly, that that uncertainty in her eyes was gone. Hidden. He knew all about doors shut in the heart. Best way to get work done, though not the healthiest, he was told. “I know I’ve been a troublesome agent,” she smiled. “I’ve not served properly nor competently. I won’t around much longer, though. So I will be out of your hair soon.”

Cullen blinked. “Won’t be around much longer? Where did this come from? Did Leliana--”

“Oh, no she didn’t kick me out. Still, trust me, I know the implications of my being here. Some of the guys in the barracks think I’m trying to seduce the Herald, which is gross. They’re the ones who are a bit angrier. Those who don’t keep asking me to tell him things on their behalf They try to give me things. Very awkward. All this because Maxwell was stubborn and sat with me where everyone could see. I also know my being here gives Maxwell something else to worry about too. So, soon, I will take my leave.”

“That is all very nice,” he said cooly. “Unfortunately your leave is not approved.”

She glanced up at him. “I… wasn’t really asking for approval…”

“Do you know what we call people who leave an army without approval?,” he asked crisply, brushing some snow off the fur on his coat. “Deserters. Traditionally, there are certain ways deserters are dealt with - usually involving a short drop and a sudden stop.” 

She stared at him. “But--”

“I take it Sister Leliana spoke to you. Then she must have mentioned your training,” he smiled. That made her look even more uncertain. 

“With another agent? Yes, she did. She didn’t give me much else, though.” She hesitated. “I didn’t think she… really meant it.”

He laughed harder than he should have at that. 

Evelyn groaned. “Yes, I’d laugh at me too,” she said grumbled. “That sounded stupid the moment it left my lips.”

Cullen cleared his throat. “I understand that, believe me. Come with me, then. Your trainer has arrived.” He could see the look of tense and sudden excitement in her eyes. She quickly set the sword on the rack and set the whetstone and bucket in the corner, then hurried after him as he headed out of the armoury. 

“Who?” she asked breathlessly. “The Black Hart? I heard she was here. She’s amazing - whoever she is right now. Lace too - though I think I’ve probably annoyed her as well. Captain Rylen? No, he’s strictly military. And is  probably annoyed I caught him cheating at cards while I was cheating. But he didn’t catch me. Why can’t Templars palm cards properly?”

“Speak any faster and you’re going to turn blue in the face.”

“I’m excited!” she squealed, a spring in her step. “I hope it’s the Black Hart!” 

Cullen stared. She actually squealed. And hopped. It was bloody adorable. He cleared his throat and pushed the thought from his mind. “Do you really annoy everyone you meet?” he asked, the snow crunching beneath their boots. She was truly a small figure, her head barely reaching his shoulder. She couldn’t have been much taller than Varric.

“I object!” she gasped in indignation. “I can be very personable when I want to be! In court. With nobles. Not in the army, though. It’s harder. Out here, I feel like a square peg in a round hole.” She looked up at him, her blue eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Out of curiosity, how annoyed were you that night in the tavern?”

“On a scale of one to ten?”

“If you wish.”

“Twelve.”

“Well,” she said. “I’m surprised I’m still around.”

“I thought you might be helpful to our cause. And I still think you are. You just lack a sense of purpose.” 

She pursed her lips. “Well,” she murmured. “You’re not wrong there.”

“That will make surviving here that much harder,” he pointed out. “Surviving anywhere, really.”

“People buy and sell bards all the time,” she said. “It’s nothing new. It’s the Code. Purpose has nothing to do with it. We provide our services, they use us. For a fee.”

“We haven’t bought you, Evelyn,” he said gently. 

She grew quiet at that, and Cullen saw the slightly puzzled curl of her eyebrow. A square peg in a round hole. She was correct about that. Not that it helped her situation at all. She had to fit before she became a liability. “You’re surprisingly amiable,” he murmured as they stepped through the open gates of Haven. “All things considered.” 

“To you specifically, you mean,” she said. “There’s a time and place for everything, including when to show my dislike and anger. Now might not be the best time. Perhaps I could throw some veiled insults at you later?” She must have caught the surprised look on his face. “I do have some modicum of self control, Commander. Besides, you’re being surprisingly amiable to me too. You haven’t thrown me in jail.” 

“Yet,” he said. She grinned up at him, her eyes twinkling with mischief.  _ I can be very personable when I want to be… _ He’d have to watch out for that. 

They exited the gate, and there, standing in the snow beyond the gates, was a mountain - or close to one. He was a Qunari, who returned to Haven with Maxwell from a detour to the Storm Coast on the way home from Val Royeaux. His mercenary band, the Bull’s Chargers, were surprisingly proficient. But above all, they were No Trouble and got along well with the forces here. Cullen, however, was watching Evelyn’s face as she set eyes on the Qunari sitting on a log by the fire, sharpening a massive broadsword. 

It was not often one saw Bards surprised, but Evelyn froze, and stared. “We’re branching out,” she murmured.

Cullen placed a hand on her back and led her to the fire, literally and figuratively, perhaps. “The Iron Bull,” he said as she approached. Bull looked up with his one eye, a slight smirk on his lips. 

“The Iron Bull,” Evelyn said immediately. “Bull’s Chargers. Merc Band. Hilarious Giant Baiting parties, guaranteed Giant. Fun for the Whole Family.”

“And if they don’t get a giant, they got me,” Bull rumbled. Even his laughs sounded like earthly tremors. 

“This is Evelyn Wren,” Cullen introduced “The Bard Leliana told you about.” 

“My little trainee,” grinned The Iron Bull.

“What?” Evelyn exclaimed, looking up pleadingly at Cullen. “I knew I annoyed the Sister but--”

“But what?” Cullen cut her off. “You don’t want to be trained?”

“No, I do!” Evelyn protested. “I just,” she glanced at the massive Qunari and sighed in resignation, “I didn’t I annoyed her that much.”

“First job for the trainee,” Bull said as he stood up. He passed her the sword with a casual toss. Cullen felt his heart catch in his throat when he saw it fly blade first. Evelyn yelped as she somehow caught it in the crook of her armored arms, but tumbled back into the snow under its weight regardless. She groaned as she sat up, the sword resting on her thighs.

"Maker’s breath,” Cullen exclaimed, reaching out to help her up. 

“No!” Evelyn snapped, pulling her hand away. She looked at Bull, her eyes hard. “This is a challenge.”

“You’ve got that right,” Bull grinned. “You need some meat on your bones, Wren. Get that sharpened in the armoury.”

She glared at the whetstone in Bull’s hand, and stood up, pivoting the sword up with its point in the snow. She could barely carry it, but managed to heft it up, resting the flat of the blade on her shoulder. Cullen, catching himself reaching out to help her, rested his hands upon the pommel of his sword at his hip.  “Sure,” she grunted. “At the armoury. No problem.” Without a word, she turned, hauling the massive sword with her back through the gates.

“Was that necessary?” Cullen asked as he watched her go, bent under the weight of the sword.

“Yep,” Bull replied. “I threw it at her blade first.”

“That’s what I meant.”

“She managed to pivot it out of the way to catch it safely. Not bad reflexes. Needs strengthening up a bit, though. I can say she’s a cocky little thing.”

“You’ve no idea,” Cullen murmured. 

A massive hand slapped him on the back, and he tried not to stagger. Bull stood behind him, but Cullen hadn’t even heard him move. “Don’t worry, Cullen,” said Bull. “I’ll take care of her. Straighten her out. I’m good at that.”

“And other things as well,” Cullen noted wryly, reaching up to rub his shoulder where Bull had so amiably pat him. “Or so I hear.”

“It’s all part of the deal,” Bull grinned. “I watch for you, you watch me--”

“You watch us,” Cullen added. 

“Lots of watching going around,” Bull shrugged. “Part of the deal, like I said. And I don’t mind cracking her into shape.”

Cullen glanced at him. Of course. Ben-Hassrath, a Qunari spy, and he was given the task of training the Inquisitor’s cousin. Who knew what sort of convoluted duplicity that would possibly lead to. Not that his protests had made much of a difference. Cullen hoped Leliana’s gamble on Evelyn would pay off. If it did, they gained information, Leliana had explained. If not, they lost a bard worth losing. It felt unfair and wrong to Cullen, but he had been out-voted.

He just hoped Evelyn was up to the challenge. She probably was. She was willing to face any challenge, regardless of the outcome. Whether it was the Commander in a tavern, or a noble with a strange Tevinter ally, or now, with the Iron Bull. Cullen hoped she were as wise as she was clever. 

 

+++++

 

Sharpening swords was mind numbing, but not as boring as it was made out to be. Cullen thought it a punishment, and this new person, The Iron Bull, thought it a good first task for her. She didn’t mind it, since the quiet activity was almost meditative, giving her time to think on her situation. She was being trained. That was good. Investment in her skill showed the Inquisition was invested in her. She was here as long as they could help her find Ehren, after all. Maxie could take care of himself, certainly. He didn’t need her. 

The sky was growing darker outside as evening fell, her stomach was rumbling, but she pushed all thought of food aside. She would get this blade as sharp as the day it left the forge. She dipped the stone in water and set it to the blade once more. The regular hiss of the stone as she drew it down the blade calmed her. She glanced at the door, hearing a footstep. Cullen again? She felt a heat in her cheeks and a skip in her heart. 

No, she realized, the footstep falling harder than his. Someone else. Big. What’s that feeling in her? Disappointment? What in the void-- She froze when the door opened, and a figure loomed, blocking practically the whole door frame. He stepped in, the lamp light glinting on his horns, and she realized she was tensing. Stupid, stupid reaction, she knew. She forced herself to calm. 

“That’s better,” Bull said, holding a wine jar in one massive hand the way anyone else would hold a bottle. She glared at him. “Suspicious?” he asked. 

“Can’t you tell?” Evelyn asked.

“That makes you sound either like a bard or an ass hole,” he grunted. He shifted a crate of swords away from the wall with a foot, and dropped himself down with a gusty sigh. 

Evelyn just grinned. “Why not both?”

“Not many people like ass holes,” Bull pointed out. 

“Not many people like swords thrown at them blade-first,” she pointed out, her whetstone hissing along the blade. “But you don’t hear me complaining.”

“No, but I hear a lot of other things about you, Wren.” The wine sloshed in the jar as he brought it to his lips. 

She glanced at him. Here it came. Her bad reputation. “I am not surprised,” she said quietly. “Most of it bad?”

“Some of it. Running from the Val Royeaux with a bard’s mark on your head, running from Redcliffe hunted by mages, running from a burning noble’s house. How long till you run from us?”

She chuckled. “A gentleman wouldn’t ask that question of a lady, ser,” she purred. 

“By the sound of that, it might be soon.” Bull took another swig, and she hated the way he looked all smug and huge and frightening as if he could break her like a twig. And she hated that she was scared. The whetstone hissed a little more fiercely on the blade. “Why not bugger off now and save me the trouble of having to train you?”

“Possibly because I’m curious,” she said cooly, tilting the sword in her hand to sight its edge. “You swagger about like a brawler, but I wonder about that, The Iron Bull. A two-handed weapon user, merc leader, bed warmer for the nobility, hilarious giant-baiter. It’s a skill set completely different from mine. Why would the good Sister send me to you to train? Could it be you have another skill set? One far more compatible with mine?” She glanced at him. “That footfall in the snow was pretty deliberate, you know.”

He actually grinned at her. “That’s not bad, good call on noticing the step,” he said, leaning forward on his elbows. “The problem with that is your delivery. You want to get the upper hand, you don’t reveal what you know. Laying all the cards down like that and you got nothing else if the shit hits the fan. Besides, you just gave a load of suspicions, but no proof. Loose lips sink ships.”

Her jaw tensed slightly, her eyes glittering like shards. "Point taken," she muttered. 

“You didn’t answer my question,” he pointed out. “Why not run?”

“The Inquisition is helping me,” she simply said. “And I offer my services in return.”

“Helping you what?”

“With something personal.”

“Not with Maxwell, I take it?”

“Maxie can take care of himself.”

“Someone else, then” Bull said. 

She glanced at him. He knew. Of course he knew. The advisors told him, or Maxwell did. Someone must have. “My brother,” she said evenly. “I’m looking for him. He’s somewhere in the Rebel Mages.” 

“And Maxwell?”

“Maxwell isn’t tranquil,” Evelyn said. “He’s able to take care of himself. He was also bred to lead, being from the main branch.” She dipped the stone in water, sending her reflection shimmering into pieces. “Ehren, not so. He needs me more than Maxie does.” She looked up at him. “I don’t see how this ties in with my training.”

Bull chuckled at that, a low rumbling sound that sounded neither mocking nor kind. “I think you need to get out more, Wren. First thing tomorrow, you go on a scouting mission.” He stood up and put the jar of wine on the ground next to her. “In the meantime, polish that sword up well. We need to send it back to Butler’s sister.”

“Butler?” Evelyn frowned. “The Templar with the pimples?”

“Yup,” Bull said, stopping at the door. “He’s dead. His sister will want his sword. Not much left of him to send.”

Evelyn lowered her eyes to the sword, her face growing slightly paler as she stared at it. She did not see Bull’s half-smile as he turned away from her, and stepped out into the night. 


	10. Fuck This Mountain, Seriously

Evelyn’s fingers were freezing. She blew on them as she walked away from the Bridge Gate to the west of Haven, which would bring her up the mountain. The gate was now far behind her, visible as the looked down the path that rose up the mountain. The sun was barely up, a mere sliver of steel gray in the sky, and yet the summit was lit up with dawn’s fire. Overhead, the Breach loomed, staining the mountains and dawn sky with its fell green glow. There were no birds here. That was disconcerting. Everywhere across the Frostbacks, in snow or summer sun, there were always wrens warbling their songs. But here, there was silence. The only wren about was her, and she was not likely to break into song. 

Go up the mountain, Bull had said. Gather intelligence and report back. It sounded so simple. She hadn't counted on the bloody cold. She blew on her hands again to warm them, the hem of her fur lined cloak swirling around her ankles as she came to a stop. Her fingers were bandaged. It was hard to sharpen a sword you could barely lift, and she had cut herself a few times. But she’d be damned if that sword weren’t sharp enough to shave the wings off a gnat now. It would shear a man in half like a hot knife through butter. She’d made sure of it. She hoped it made the man Butler’s sister feel better when she got it… 

Templar or no, that probably didn’t matter once you’re dead, did it? 

Did it?

She wasn’t sure. What did matter? She never knew Butler. Was he one of the good Templars or one of the bad ones? Did he ever hurt a mage without cause? Did he ever strike a Tranquil who would never raise a hand in defence? Did he ever stay his blade, knowing that Templars were meant to protect, not enslave? She had no idea. Would a Templar who struck others down unjustly even join the Inquisition?

The image of Cullen’s face rose in her mind. The scar on his lip which should have been stitched but was seemingly ignored to heal on its own. The lines under his dark-ringed eyes, two under the left, one under the right. Brow wrinkles locking his face into a perpetual frown, yet the furrows on his forehead spoke of constant worry. A lock of his hair at the hairline that never stayed in place. Snow dusting his mantle as he stood leaning against the door of the armoury, feet crossed at the ankles. 

Maybe there are no bad Templars. Cullen had said that. Well, after all he’s done, he would say that, wouldn’t he? He had also said there were no good ones either. What did that make him? He hadn’t exactly said he was good, quite the contrary. Perhaps he knew he was the tip of the iceberg - part of the handful that drove the mages to their breaking point. He was wrong and he knew it. Yet he had the audacity to stand there as leader of the Inquisition’s forces. He had the gall to be so… so nice! So actually calming to talk to! She felt her cheeks heat from her rising anger. He was nothing more than bad person pretending at being good. 

_ Just like you, when it’s all said and done _ .  _ Masks upon masks. _ The thought came unbidden, creeping from within her. She frowned as she walked, pushing the thought from her mind. 

She looked around her, getting her bearings. The path wound up the mountainside, leading to where the once mighty Temple of Sacred Ashes stood. Haven was far from her now, and she was alone here with nothing but the Breach overhead. She followed the road to a shattered bridge. She saw the river that wound up the mountain, frozen solid. She leapt from the edge of the crumbling bridge, and landed on the ice lightly, her cloak flaring around her. Perhaps following the river, she would find a more direct way up the mountain than the road. 

Her boots tapped the ice, her eyes drawn by the crystalline shadows from the river’s frozen depths, the shards of the breach’s light dancing upon its surface. She could see pieces of fade rock, upon the ice, the green glow flaring like drawn breath. She walked past it all, trying to keep from looking up at the Breach. Like a watchful eye, it drew one’s gaze inexorably towards it. Damned irritating, honestly. 

She frowned, hearing what she dreaded hearing, a whisper on the edge of her mind she remembered distinctly from her flight from Redcliffe through a demon-infested night. Evelyn touched a vial at her hip, shadows sweeping over her, and she vanished, leaving only the faint wavering reflection of her form on the ice. 

It came then, moving with no feet, almost swimming across the ice on a cloud of darkness. One baleful eye looking out from under a hood of what seemed to be dark skin. The creature stopped and looked about, searching. It dropped its hands to the ice, a strange snuffling sound filling the air. It smelled? It looked up suddenly, screaming from a face that had no mouth as it rounded about. But the blade cut deep into its one eye as she shadows fell from around Evelyn’s body. 

As the demon quivered on her blade, she kicked it off, the beast clawing weakly at her greaves. It landed on the ice with a thud and burst into hissing green flame. She swiped the black blood off her dagger, splatters staining the pristine ice as the demon burned into nothingness. She sheathed her blades and moved on, leaving the burning carcass behind her. So, remnants of the blast still roamed the mountainside. Demons. Demons she could fight, or outrun. 

She touched her abdomen as she stepped over the last ashes of the creature, and felt Ehren’s music box there. He had spoken to her of demons once, many years ago. They were supposed to be insidious, manipulative, cruel. Not the screechy things that charged at you, or hunted you like a wolf. Perhaps the hole in the sky had messed them up too. Perhaps she was underestimating them. 

So, it was either a demon twisted into being a simpleton, or herself who was being stupid. She knew which was more likely. 

She looked over her shoulder suddenly, her blue eyes narrowed. A sound? Her eyes scanned the icy path behind her and nothing but the white shroud of snow and a silent landscape. Her gaze lingered on the shadows, the nooks between rock and tree, the dark spaces between overhangs and the river - looking for eyes that looked back. 

She lowered her hand, realizing that she was instinctively reaching for her belt clip of vials. She forced herself to turn away. Keep to the river, no footprints save reflections on the ice and a passing shadow. Quicksilver across the snow. Better safe than sorry. There was nothing there. If there were, she’d have seen signs of them before - physical signs, not tingles down the spine.

She glanced over her shoulder, frowning. Not yet. It was just a footstep, and even then she wasn’t sure. No sense in wasting her vials when she might need them later. But perhaps some speed would be wise. She turned and headed up the river with quickened footsteps.

As she hiked up the pass, she realized that here, the fist of winter was never released. Never were the mountains free from its veil of frost. She wrapped her cloak around her as she walked along the river, a white shroud seeing to fall around her, as if rising from the ground itself. Her breath clouded, the fog closing in. She swore inwardly, knowing that the chances of her getting turned around were that much greater now. 

Evelyn abandoned the river, and traced her way back to the path, her feet now crunching in the snow. It took her a while to find it in the fog, but she finally did when a ghost rope appeared out of the grayness, eerily suspended as both ends of it vanished into the fog. The path was well traveled, rope strung between markers with some beacons lit. The Inquisition had been bringing down survivors, scavenge and remains for weeks. Now relief and recovery were over. The peak was abandoned, forsaken my man and Maker. She touched the rope, glittering ice cracking under her grasp, and ducked under it to step onto the wide path. 

And there, once again, a whisper in the distance, a footstep upon the earth. She turned, her hand on her dagger, eyes wide as she stared into the fog stained green by the light of the Breach. A familiar far off voice emerged from the depths of the fog like a sparkling minnow...

_ My little Wren.  _

“Chaudron?” she exclaimed.

But, no, that couldn’t be. Chaudron would climb a mountain as readily as she would cut off a toe. A demon, perhaps? Why was her heart hammering like this? She turned, her eyes stark wide beacons in the fog, and hurried up the path. The voice ghosted behind her, clear against the muffled silence.

_ Evelyn… _

Ice from the rope cracked like shattering crystal as she ran, running her hand along the rough cord to not lose it in the fog. Her breath clouded as it hissed between her lips. She looked over her shoulder. Nothing was there. Nothing. The voice was her imagination, she was running from shadows! 

The problem with shadows, a treacherous thought came, was that something was always there to cast them. 

Was that a smell of pipe smoke in the air? 

The skid caught her off guard, her feet sliding out from under her across the icy packed path. She gasped as she landed painfully on her side. 

_ Warmth filled her, washing over her. It was beyond warm, she was sweating, every muscle and sinew burning with the effort. There was also pain as she looked up in the bright candlelight of the ballroom. “Idiot girl!” she heard, a voice cracking in the air. Evelyn turned to see Chaudron, lounging on her chaise, red lips pulled in a dissatisfied sneer. “Back on your feet. You must dance.” _

_ Hours and hours dancing. Always smiling, always tittering, never did the masks upon masks come off. Evelyn pushed herself to her feet, her ankles hurting with the pointed heeled shoes she had to wear, her breath short from the corset cinching her waist. “I don’t want to dance, Lady,” she grunted, her hand on her abdomen, the world spinning, swimming in and out of vision.  _

_ Hard to breathe… _

_ “If I have to explain once more why you have to dance--” Chaudron began.  _

_ “Lady Soie never asked me to dance,” Evelyn snapped. Chaudron stood from her chaise, her fan snapping shut like a whipcrack. _

_ “Lady Soie never taught me how to pleasure men,” Evelyn went on, anger and disgust filling her. Chaudron’s shoes tapped the ground like hammers of doom as she crossed the ballroom.  _

_ “Lady Soie never told me I was too small to fight back! She gives me knives, she gives me pride. No more potions, no more dancing. I’ve had enough!”  _

_ Chaudron’s hand grasped her chin and neck, making Evelyn gasp. The large woman practically lifted Evelyn’s small frame off her feet, holding her close as their eyes locked. Evelyn’s frightened eyes stared out from behind her Wren mask, and Chaudron saw her fear. Of course she did… _

_ “Greater weapons than blades do I give you. No blade will you ever need to raise save your cuting words, no silks will you lie in save the ones you choose. No pledging yourself to a patron like a common thug. You could sit upon the throne of the world through wit and cunning and--” _

_ “Magic?” Evelyn grunted.  _

_ Chaudron’s purr was predatory. “A little,” she said. “And always in a bottle. You know the gift I have given freely, and this is your gratitude? You are not too small to fight, my little Wren. You are too foolish.”  _

_ Evelyn’s shaking fingers clutched Chaudron’s wrist. “Alas,” Chaudron sighed. “It appears I am an unfit tutor for you. Life is the greatest pedagogue of all, mayhaps that would suit you better.” _

_ A gloved finger touched Evelyn’s lip. “Choose. Do you wish to follow my path?” _

_ Evelyn grit her teeth, fingers digging into Chaudron’s wrist. “I will not be a whore like you!” she snarled, fear fanning the flames of her rage. “Never!”  _

_ Evelyn braced for the strike that did not come. Chaudron simply smiled, and Evelyn saw in her eyes a heart of winter to shame the mountain’s frost. “Then I release you, little Wren,” Chaudron purred. “Go to your Lady Soie and see the doomed fates your footfalls lead you. Farewell. Mayhap one day you will forgive me for this cruelty.”  _

_ And Chaudron let her go, Evelyn’s shoes slipping on the polished floor under her as she fell once more.  _

Hard ice hit her chin, lights flashing in her eyes. The feel of the warmth of the ballroom was gone, leaving only ice in its wake. She gasped, blinking as she looked up at the icy road stretching out into the mists before her. The candles had felt so real. Chaudron’s hand on her chin, the tight bodice around her torso, the silks, the warmth… what was that vision?

What had the breach done to the veil? Was it pulling from her memories? Waking dreams… But she was no mage, was this even possible? She gripped the rope and pulled herself up, wiping the blood from her chin with the back of her gloved hand. She hurried on, her feet carrying her from the vision. 

Her hand trailed along the rope, the fog swirling around her feet as she climbed higher and higher up the trail. Each new marker was lit with a beacon, shining atop a stone post with a golden halo, the icy fog sputtering against the flame from the tiny brazier. The whispers followe behind her, around her. She kept her hand close to her daggers. She grit her teeth and hurried on, her eyes a little wild. She was afraid, and angry that she was afraid. 

_ Evie... _

She pushed past the voice and quickened her step. Her mind flicked through various possible other waking dreams she could be having. Would she see the time when she met the Dowager? Or when she and Guiscard had done that Lydes job? Argh, Maker, please could we skip the one in the bar with the one-armed man in the pantaloons?

Eventually, stones loomed around her. They emerged from the fog like the clawed hands of giants, glowing green and twisted, almost writhing from some phantasmal pain. She skirted around them. The lights from within the veins seemed to glow with the rhythm of She was nearing the peak, and the air was different here. It felt… alive. Watchful. Something was here. 

Just a distance more to the peak and the temple ruins there. Scout it out, Bull said. Just see what was there. Thanks to the fog she could see nothing. 

_ Evie… _

The voice was growing clearer now, coming to her in a familiar baritone. No please, she begged, her mind shying from the gaping pit of dread. Mind on the job. She had to get her bearings. Were there demon stragglers left here? More creatures falling from the sky? Stay calm, and focus. She drew a breath and crouched down. She reached out to the ground, peering closely through the black ice as she brushed the hint of snow away with her gloved hand. Stones there, beneath the ice. A paved path, the sunburst of Andraste upon the slabs. She was on the right track. The temple was not far off. 

_ Evie? _

Recognition spilled down her spine like an icy trickle. The voice was right behind her. Her eyes misted. Not him. She hissed and stood up.

_ “Evie?”  _

_ She stepped back from the figure before her, standing a head and shoulders taller than her. Messy dark hair spilled from his bandaged head, poking out from between the linen cloth’s binds. One eye was bandaged, the other was ringed with an ugly purple bruise. She knew the shape of it - a blow from a pommel.  _

_ The man before her looked down at her with his one good eye, brilliant blue like hers. “I do not know an Evie,” he spoke again, his voice level, monotonous, dead. Not the voice she remembered… _

_ “What do you mean?” she cried, her words echoing in the vaulted ceiling of the Circle of Magi, setting the delicate glass apparatus of the Tranquil’s workbenches humming. She gripped his robe sleeves. He did not move, looking blankly down at her tears. “You know me,” she whimpered. “Evie…. Can’t you recognize me, Ehren?” _

_ “No, I am afraid I do not.” _

_ Her soul shriveled from those words. Her tears seared like the scirocco upon her cheeks as she met his unblinking gaze.  _

_ “After the Rite, it is not uncommon for the Tranquil to be a little addled at first,” she heard. The First Enchanter stood behind her, his tone compassionate. “His memories will come back with time, Lady Trevelyan. He will know you. He spoke of you often.” _

_ Evelyn stared up at Ehren, her eyes locking on the merest hint of a red scar on his forehead -  the tip of a ray from the sunburst brand peeking out from beneath the bandages. She wasn’t angry, she was too broken to be angry, too desperate. She wanted nothing more than for him to know her again, look at her as he once did, his gaze of equal parts amusement, annoyance and love. Not this… void of a gaze. _

_ Ehren pulled his arms from the grasp of her shaking hands. “I have much work to return to,” he said stoically. “Please, excuse me.” _

_ And he turned away from her tears, her chest heaving and her shoulders rising as the sobs tore through her. Irving approached her as she curled up in her grief. His hand rested on her shaking shoulder, her tears dotting the cold stone floor. Ehren was heading back to his workbench in the Tranquil laboratory. “Give him time,” he said kindly.  _

_ She shook her head, her messy mop of black hair curled just like her brother’s. “I couldn’t help him,” she whispered. “This is wrong. He didn’t do anything wrong…” _

_ Irving was quiet, his silence telling.  _

_ Evelyn moved from his touch. “Now he’s gone. Maxie’s gone. Papa’s gone. Ehren’s broken and gone, gone, gone…” _

_ “What has happened to him is regretful. I know you grieve. While he cannot access the Fade, he is not as broken as you think.” Irving looked up at Ehren, now seated at his workbench, fingers reaching for the delicate tools of the Tranquil. “I have never seen anyone take so quickly to the magical crafts. There is a part of him left. Tranquility cannot take away potential, only transform its manifestation.” _

_ Crafts? Evelyn breathed. She reached into the pouch at her side, her fingers searching, shaking in desperation.  _

_ Irving continued, “He will come around, I assure you. He will--” _

_ The lightest of tinkling music began to fill the air, gentle drops of rain upon a parched summer field. Evelyn lifted her head, a tiny music box in her hand, delicately crafted in its polished wooden case. The song seemed to ring against the walls, rising to the vaulted ceiling like the sparrows greeting the dawn. _

_ The song met Ehren’s ears. He stopped, and cocked his head slightly to the sound. For Evelyn, the world ceased to move, holding its breath. Then, as slow as the mountain’s rise, he turned to her. Only then did she dare to blink. _

The foggy world of the mountaintop met her eyes when her eyelids parted. She stared into the fog, wavering as tears filled her eyes, flowing down her cheeks… She looked down at her hands, her breath quivering, her heart like the beating war drums in her heaving chest. It wasn’t real. None of this was. Yet she could feel the warmth of his sleeves as she grabbed him, feel the gaping pit of emptiness in her heart when she feared she might be all alone in the world, untethered in the cruel winds of fate. 

Wet droplets landed on her gloves and froze. The vision was so real, the feelings were so real - it was being there again. Everything was like being there again. What were these visions and why were they tormenting her?

She clenched her fists, drawing a shaking breath, glad for the bite of the cold air in her nose and lungs. She raised her face to the green sky. If she stayed on this mountain, she would lose her mind. She remembered the feel of Ehren’s sleeves in her grasp. Irving was right. He grew to remember her. And soon, she would find him. This time she wasn’t letting go…

All she had to deal with now was this mountain. It found the memories that cut deepest. The memory of the one-armed man in the pantaloons was nothing compared to… others. As she turned to head up the path through the glowing green fade rocks, she dredged the depths of her mind with a clinical eye. What other memories could the mountain summon? Guiscard’s betrayal. Guiscard’s death. Her father’s departure. Her mother’s dismissal of her. Growing up second-class to Maxwell in his parent’s estate… 

Maker preserve her, she hadn’t even reached the remnants of the temple yet. Curse this fog. Her boots crunched on the fresh ice, moving up the frigid path towards the temple. She was almost there. Here, no snow covered the fade rocks, piling instead around what seemed to be standing mounds of… perhaps the stumps of pillars? There was a metallic, coppery taste to the air. She could barely see. She rested her hand on a pillar of snow next to her to wipe the frost on her cheeks. 

Her fingers pushed through the soft snow of the pillar. As she gasped, regaining her balance, she felt her hand close around something sharp, like the branch of a tree. The snow continued to fall from the pillar, sighing off to reveal a nightmare. 

Evelyn’s cry was strangled as she pulled her hand away, dislodging more snow. Empty eyes looked back at her, a dried desiccated corpse looking back at her like a gnarled winter-bare tree. It was frozen, locked in a writhe of pain. Evelyn backed away, her eyes locked on the horrific remnant of a man. Pointed tips touched her back. She spun. Another of the corpses lay half buried under a shroud of snow, hand shielding its face as he reached out for… something. 

She stared around her, seeing more of these pillars in the fog, ghostly figures trapped in writhing death beneath a white shroud of snow, stained green by the breach. “Maker,” her voice was hoarse. Another vision? 

No, it wasn’t. Was it? She wasn’t sure… 

She fought the urge to turn, to run down the mountain and never look back, never come back to this horrible place of waking nightmares. 

Maxwell stepped out of this. He had faced worse than this. These bodies could have been him. 

_ The heat of the sun warmed them through their cottons, their clothes soaked with sweat. She waved her small sword around, running through a grand garden. Before her, a taller boy wearing fine silks. _

_...And yet, this wasn’t right…. _

_ She could feel the burn of her muscles as she chased him. “Stop! We’re supposed to go for lessons!” she heard Ehren call from far behind.  _

_ “Go for lessons! You can’t climb trees faster than me!” taunted the dark-haired young noble in a voice full of youthful enthusiasm.  _

_ “I CAN!” she shouted, her voice louder than her tiny form belied. “And I will! You just watch!”  _

The pain shot up her jaw. She grunted, hot blood filling her mouth as she lowered her fist, her knuckles still stinging from the punch to her jaw. The vision faded from her eyes. She spat her blood on the snow and rubbed her jaw, wincing from the pain as she continued towards the temple. Well, she thought, that was one way to deal with those damned visions. 

The temple rose before her now, or what was left of it. Before her, like a gaping maw in the fog, was a crater. Here, the coppery taste in the air was palpable, and there was an odd heat here holding the cold at bay. The area around the temple was strangely not shrouded in show, but she could see the glitter of ice upon the blasted rocks. Somewhere ahead, the fog was alive. A green glow ebbed and flowed from the distance punctuated by flashes of lightning. There was also a red tint to the fog from Maker knew where. 

Here, without the snow, the desiccated bodies were clearly visible. They looked like they had been burned right into grisly glass statues. This was her mission. Shaking the strange visions from her mind, she hopped off the ledge and landed in silence. 

Everyone else who survived was farther away from the blast. But Maxwell walked out of this. How?

A thought curled in her belly like a serpent.  _ He should be dead _ . But somehow, somehow he had. He came down the mountain, whether held in the bosom of Andraste or not, she had no idea. 

Well so what? 

I can do the same.

_ And I will. Just you watch. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta-ed! Apologies for the typos and weird words. Do drop me a comment so I know you're here. And real. Not imaginary. Too many imaginary friends...


	11. Old Friends

The remnants of the temple rose around her, broken spires and twisted, glowing fade rock clawing at the heavens. The Breach rumbled here. You could feel it in the bones, always overhead, like ever-roiling thunder. Evelyn clambered over the rocks, keeping herself low and her dagger drawn. Her lip was bleeding, and her chin bruised. Punches to the face were surprisingly effective at knocking her out of visions, even if she did need to walk around with snow pressed to her chin. It was worth it, however. Some memories she never wanted to look at again, and the mountain seemed adept at finding the ones that cut the deepest. 

She looked down at the massive crater before her. The fog on the mountain was moving here, despite the fact that there was no wind. The very air itself was turned green from the diffused light of the Breach. The statue of Andraste, which had once stood over the Urn of Sacred Ashes, stood broken. It glowed green and… red. Veins of strange glowing red seemed to claw up its side like a twisting vine. Like red veins, she noted. What was that?

And always, over everything, was the song. 

It hummed in the air, breathing with the flow of the fog, scratching on the mind like nails on a chalkboard. She grit her teeth, lifting herself up from the blasted rock. The stones were so seared here they would have cut like shards of glass were she not wearing gloves. 

_ Maxwell crawled out of this. _

She dropped herself over the lip of the crater and landed below. There were no calcified bodies here. She had left them all behind her, screaming their silent cries to the uncaring sky. 

Investigate, do a demon count. Then maybe she could get out of here. Maybe she could get out of here sane. She looked up at the foggy sky, seeing columns of shadows passing through the mists like a hand shifting before the sun. She squinted, and saw the slowly turning head of Andraste, hanging in the air, turning with the whispering fog and casting its shadow around her. A ghostly ship of the Lady floating high above on the surface of a lime green sea. 

There were other shadows too, all pieces of Her, flying in the air. 

_ Maxwell had walked out of this. _

_ HOW? _

She realized it felt warm here, no ice frosted across the rocks. She pulled down the cloth over her mouth, looking up at Andraste’s head. She lowered her eyes, the shadow gently sweeping by her. Her feet crunched on the broken rocks as she walked towards the statue. The humming was stronger here, and the red glow was more pronounced. It crept up the base of the statue, profane veins running up the rock. She knelt down beside it, examining it. 

She had seem some spires of these scattered around the lip of the crater. They seemed to cluster, spreading from one area to another. Rather odd seeing this here, glowing and growing all by itself around the statue. 

She frowned and reached out towards the redness, feeling the warmth of it through her gloves, the strange song rising in her ears. Was the song from the Breach or this red crystal?

Her fingers brushed against it. 

_ Warmth - fire. Fire burning under the skin, around him. The tang of magic in the air and the bitter, bitter taste of terror on his tongue. Maxwell staggered back, bleeding, broken, his breath rasping between his teeth as he pulled himself up, reaching for sword and shield.  _

_ Ribs broken, hurting. Leg twisted. Blood from the head flowing down his face, burning like liquid flame. And the damn mark - the damn mark was torture, his shield arm weakened and shaking, mark tugging towards the rift always.  _

_ Something big behind him, rising up - never seen such a thing before! Maker preserve me, what is that? My sword can’t break through its skin, too thick, like dragon scale.  _

_ Fear so thick he could taste it in his mouth. No idea what was going on, everyone dead. All dead. Emilie, Jaquard - everyone dead. Friends. The Divine. What happened? Why couldn’t he remember?! _

_ Hand closed around sword hilt. Hope. Maybe hope. He raised his blade and turned, seeing the towering horned shadow rise above him, fist raised. Fear burning deep, searing into rage.  _

_ Maker!  _

_ Don’t let me die! I don’t want to die! Maker, please! No-- _

The vision was wrenched from her mind, like a tooth from the jaw. The jolt wrenched through her, mind going blank as her own body’s senses spilled back - clothes rough on her skin, chill on her cheeks, pain, breath through her nostrils, head banging on the floor--

Horns towered over her in the green fog. She screamed, and her body was shaken by her shoulders.

“Trevelyan!” 

_ Fear so thick she could taste it in her mouth _ . She whimpered, pushing at the hands that held her shoulders, clawing at the arms that grasped her. 

“Relax!” The voice barked and she stilled, fingers digging into the flesh of massive whipcord arms as she recognized the voice. She stared up at him. A horned figure. One eye. She sucked in her breath and pushed his hands off her shoulders. She crawled away from him on her hands and knees, heart thundering in her ears.  

Fear so thick she could taste it in her mouth.  _ Fear so real. _

She threw up.

“Didn’t anyone tell you not to touch the red stuff?” the Iron Bull said over the sounds of her retching, pushing himself to his feet. 

Evelyn said nothing, her heart winding down from a terrified thrum in her chest. So real. Fear so real. Maxie had never seen a demon before… not one like that. She stared at her puke, eyes stark wide and her breath hoarse on her parched throat, the taste of bile heavy on the tongue. 

She forced herself to swallow, and looked over her shoulder. Bull stood over her, his shadow lancing from his horns as the Breach lit him from above. She wiped her mouth and forced herself to stand. 

“Why are you here?” she growled. 

“If the Herald’s little cousin went and died on the mountain on my orders, my contract would be thrown into question,” he said, crossing his arms. “Swords don’t pay for themselves.”

Her eyes were wild, unable to shake the shroud of Maxwell’s fear from her mind. She gripped her head, pressing her temples with the heels of her hands. “You shouldn’t have sent me here,” she rasped. 

Bull was silent. 

“It’s in my head. The mountain. It’s in my head. It keeps… taking. Putting in. Maxwell was so scared…” 

“You had to see it.” 

Her hands shook. 

“You prancing about like you’re the only one who matters. You acting on your own whims looking for your own goals. Ehren, Ehren, Ehren. You don’t know what it means to take one for the team. You don’t know what your own family goes through.”

Something inside her broke. 

She screamed, her fingers clawing at her hair. She looked up at Bull, her eyes blazing. “What would you know about family?” she snarled. “Qunari don’t have family! What would you know what it means? None of this would have happened! You know who’s fault all this is!”

Bull watched her, his face like stone. 

“It’s  _ him! _ Ehren wouldn’t have been made Tranquil if not for  _ his _ thesis - if  _ he _ hadn’t pushed the mages so hard in Kirkwall - if  _ he  _ hadn’t been there  _ none of this would have happened! He should be dead! _ ”

She stood shaking, her cheeks wet. “Maxie was scared,” she whispered. “Ehren was scared too…”

She lowered her eyes. 

_ I’m scared _ .

“He’s heard all this before,” Bull said evenly. “He might even agree. He might even add to your list. You think there’s anything you can say that to him that he hasn’t already said to himself?”

Her hands clenched into fists. 

“So what now? You’re the only one who gets to hurt? You’re the only one who gets to work her way out of being a fuck up?” A hand rested on her quivering shoulder. “I hate to say it, kid, but you need to get over yourself.”

She glared at him, her blue eyes blazing. “Ehren needs me,” she breathed. 

“Ehren isn’t here. And you cutting Cullen’s heart out won’t bring him here. You were smiling with Cullen when I met you. You’re not blind to what’s right in front of you. He’s a piece of shit. But he’s not the biggest piece of shit around here. Not even you are the biggest piece of shit around here, even if you act like it.”

She grit her teeth, turning her gaze from Bull. “You’re a damn font of inspiration,” she grumbled. 

_ Maxwell was terrified. The most terrified he’d ever been. _

She pushed his hand off her arm. “I get it,” she growled. “I get it, alright? I get it.” She glared up at him. “You didn’t need any intel from this Maker-forsaken place, did you? This was all just to - to teach me.”

Bull’s chuckle bubbled up in the silence. “Knew you were smart.”

He turned, heading off into the fog. “Come on. I’m starving.”

She watched him go, her eyes wet. She brusquely dashed away her tears with the back of her hand, and followed him. Bull did not seem surprised when she joined him. Around them, the shadows of the gently turning pieces of Andraste twirled it’s silent pirouette in the light of the Breach. 

“Don’t the visions affect you too?” she asked, looking up at Bull. “All these things, these… mistakes.”

“They do,” Bull admitted as the fog closed around them. “But see them often enough, and they become old friends.”


	12. Mixed Drinks

It was warm in his hut. That much as least was a blessing. Cullen held his cup of toddy in his hand, leaning over his table as he looked over the reports in front of him. The sappers were returning to Haven from the Hinterlands, after the watchtowers around the farmlands were completed. They could be turned loose on the trebuchets now, thanks to the plans Josephine had acquired. 

And yet, there was still so much to do. As always. There was never a time when there wasn’t something to do. He sipped from his cup and set it down, feeling the spiced tea and alcohol warming him from within. The alcohol helped him sleep, the tea spared his throat from a day of yelling. Nothing seemed to stop the headache. 

_ No, he knew of one thing to stop the headache, and it was the one thing he would never take again. _

A knock on his door pounded his temple like an anvil. “Enter,” Cullen barked. 

The door slammed open. “Cullen!” His name scraped across his brain like a saw. Maxwell unsteadily held onto the door handle, waving a bottle in greeting. “Dear Cullen! Working away, as always!”

“Yes,” Cullen smiled. “As always.” The man was always loud, and insufferably cheerful. “We do have a mission in the Hinterlands, after all, Herald.” He picked up his reports and  turned to Maxwell. “Since you’re here, allow me to debrief--” 

Maxwell sniggered as he shut the door. Cullen glared at him. He drew a breath. “--Allow me to debrief you on the situation in the Farmlands. The--” 

“Oh for Maker’s sake, have mercy, Cullen,” Maxwell said, dragging a stool over to the fire with his foot. He pulled over another arm chair, bending over and tugging it by its frame. “Do I look like I’m in any condition to hear reports?” he grunted.

Cullen stared at Maxwell’s ruddy cheeks. “Probably not.” He set the papers down. 

“Join me!”

Cullen glanced at his table. “I really should get back to--”

“It’ll be there in the morning,” Maxwell grinned and stumbled to Cullen’s pantry. “Where’s your bloody cups?” He found them hanging from a hook on the wall above the pantry table. “I didn’t come here to talk about work, you know. Or do I have to order you to rest?”

Spoken like a true noble, Cullen noted wryly. “Your concern is appreciated,” he said as he joined Maxwell at the hearth. “But I assure you I’m fine.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Maxwell grinned, dropping himself down on the stool and started to fill the cups from his bottle. Cullen sat himself on the chair, feeling awkward speaking down to Maxwell from his higher seat. “ _ I’m _ not fine, though. I can’t drink with the ladies. And the Herald of Andraste can’t be stumbling about pissin’ drunk. Ruins the  _ je nai sais quoi _ .” Maxwell handed Cullen a cup. 

“ Jenny say what?” Cullen blinked. 

“Exactly!” Maxwell clinked his tin cup against Cullen’s. “Besides, you’re running yourself ragged and trying to survive on stuff my grandmother used to drink. I can smell the toddy.” He burped. “Maker, I’m drunk.”

“You’re drunk?” Cullen smiled slightly as he took the cup from Maxwell. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Maxwell gasped loudly, his eyes boggling as he gaped at Cullen. “Was that - a joke?”

Cullen sighed. “Why do I even...” He sipped the drink and coughed as it seared down his throat. “Maker’s breath!” he coughed. “Is this Hirol’s Lava Burst?”

“Well done!” Maxwell grinned. “Hirol’s and something else in the mix. I was not expecting you to drink without sniffing.” 

“I was not expecting you to stomach such a strong drink.” 

“Oh that’s cold, Cullen. Truly cold.” Maxwell took a sip and sighed lustily. “Ugh, it burns like fire going in. Burns like fire coming out too.” 

Cullen froze mid-sip. “It would have been good of you to tell me that before I took a sip.” 

“And spoil the surprise? No, this cost a pretty penny, and it was good to see a man so willing to swallow. Eh? Eh? Swallow? Just a cock joke there, in case you didn’t notice.” 

Cullen’s lips twitched. He wouldn’t laugh. That joke was beneath him. But this was good whiskey. He drank again, warmth swelling up within him. “Tomorrow we go to Redcliffe village,” said Maxwell. “I’ll probably not die. A bunch of mages send me a cordial invitation, what could go wrong?”

“I thought you weren’t here to talk about work?” Cullen said. 

“I wasn’t. Just musing. This might be my last drink. I was hoping to find Evie. Alas, she’s on a mission. She’s going to miss the chance to call me a moron and tell me to piss off. I’m sure she’ll be sad.”

“You two have an… unusual relationship,” Cullen said mildly. “And yes, she’s on a mission for the Iron Bull.” 

“We grew up like siblings. She pushed me in the pond, I chucked flour on her hair.” 

“I don’t remember doing any of that with my siblings.” Cullen paused. “Or not with all of them.” 

“Hah!” Maxwell scoffed. “Bet you were a handful as a kid.” 

“I honestly was not. I was more inclined to play chess and play with my wooden swords at the statue in the village.”

“Chess? One of the booky sort of kiddos?” Maxwell grinned. “I’d have pushed you had I seen you in the play yard.”

“I assure you, I’d have pushed you right back.”

Maxwell’s grin was satisfied. “And I’d expect no less. Why, though?”

Cullen drained his cup, his cheeks warm. “Because you’re a tit.” 

“Ah, the words of an honest man.” Maxwell refilled Cullen’s cup. “I want to know how you feel about going to the Mages.”

“I think I voice my opinions sufficiently,” Cullen said.

“Well, better the devil you know that the devil you don’t,” Maxwell burped. “Very apt idiom, by the way. I’m proud I thought of it in my condition.”

“Congratulations,” Cullen murmured. 

Maxwell waved his cup, drops of Hirol’s Lava Burst flaring in the fire of the hearth. “Y’see, Templars have their structure, right? And hopefully can be negotiated with. Mages, though, they have nothing. A bunch of people with no formal allegiances. And their chain of command is a joke.” He grunted as he swallowed a sip of the burning whiskey. “I’d rather have them in here pissing with us than pissing on us, you know what I mean?”

Cullen glanced at him. “I hesitate to say that I do…” Maxwell certainly spoke a lot about piss when he was on the piss. 

“You ready to take in a bunch? That’s presuming I’m successful, of course, and don’t die.”

“We’ll be ready to receive them. We have some mages with us, and we do have structures in place to accommodate more.” 

“Good.” Maxwell nodded sagely. “You know your stuff. I’d hate to have anyone other than you in charge.”

“Now you flatter me.” Cullen raised the cup to his lips. 

“Will it get your clothes off?”

Cullen choked on his whiskey. 

“Ah, thought so. I’m not flattering you, Cullen. The praise is earned.” He smirked at Cullen. “And  _ as a friend _ ,” he went on. “I have one last favour to ask.” 

Cullen glanced at him questioningly, still coughing as the fiery whiskey seared the back of his nose.

“If I die, right,” Maxwell said. “Do me a favour and send my silly cousin home, could you?”

“You know she won’t leave,” Cullen grunted, his nose on fire. “She’s looking for Ehren.” 

“So you know about Ehren,” Maxwell chuckled, a note of sadness in his voice.

Cullen was silent. 

“Don’t worry, it… it wasn’t you. It was a bigger problem than you. You were just at the tipping point. She hasn’t come to that realization yet, though.” 

Cullen drained his whiskey. “I really should get back to work,” he grunted. 

“Evie says he’s alive. I don’t know if that’s true. I don’t have much hope,” Maxwell said, his voice wistful as he spoke to the flames. “And she’d be alone in the world, if I get a fireball up the arse tomorrow. She’ll do something silly, I just know her. Better she were home. So just do me a favour. Even if you have to tie her up and chuck her in a box.”

“I’ll take care of her,” Cullen set down his cup. “And you’re not going to die tomorrow. We have agents at Redcliffe. Local lads. You will be covered.”

Maxwell grinned and pushed the bottle into Cullen’s hand. “Keep it, Rutherford,” he said. “You could use the sleep. Helps with the head and the stress. Let me know how much snow melts when you piss tomorrow.”

“Andraste preserve me,” Cullen rolled his eyes. “That’s - I’m not going to tell the Herald of Andraste ho-- No, this conversation is over.” 

Maxwell only laughed at he headed out the door. The snow flurried in as the Herald of Andraste stepped out, and shut the door behind him. Cullen sighed and glanced at the bottle. His head seemed to be pounding less. Perhaps this did help for sleep. Hirol’s and something else in the mix? He wondered what it was. 

And took another sip. 

 

+++++

  
  


It was dawn. The gentle fog had rolled down from the mountaintop, shrouding Haven in gentle gold as the sun peeked over the mountains. With visibility so poor, the air was filled with noises. The whinny of horses was punctuated by the clanging of swords from the morning drills, of shouts and calls from the villagers, of laughter. And over it all rose the sound of Harrit’s hammer from his forge, ringing out like a bell heralding the morning. 

There were people at the gates, a contingent of men and the Herald’s companions readying themselves. Bull was there, towering over the rest of the assembled group - the stern-faced Seeker, the chatty dwarf, the silent elven apostate. And Maxwell, tightening the cinch of his saddle on his Fereldan Forder. 

“You sure you’ll be able to ride?” the Seeker’s voice sounded out over the yard. There was a hint of amusement in her tone. She tightened the sword clasp to her saddle.  

“Ugh,” Maxwell grunted. 

“You look as bad as our Commander this morning.”

“Probably my fault. He won’t thank me for the hangover. Unfortunately, the one who gave me that tincture didn’t say it dropped you into a coma and split your skull the next morning.”

“Adan?”

“Not really,” he said. He paused when he heard Cassandra still, and followed the Seeker’s gaze over his shoulder. 

A hooded figure stood at the edge of sight in the fog, her fur-lined cloak ragged, her hood drawn. He heard the Bull chuckled lightly. “Excuse me,” Maxwell said, stepping away from the horses. The little figure stepped back and into the fog. “Oh no you don’t,” he grunted, running after her as the others disappeared behind them in the golden mist. He reached out to her hand, which instead grasped his wrist first. Evelyn pulled him off into the fog, until all sounds of Haven faded. “Where are we--” he began.

“It’s not far,” she called over her shoulder. He shut up and followed her, until she eventually slowed at a dock, her boots crunching on the old, snow covered wood. 

He sighed when she let go of his hand. “You know, you should have warned me that that stuff you gave me would kill me the next day,” he chided her. 

“What did you mix it in?” she asked, lowering her hood, her back towards him. 

“Lava Burst.”

She sighed in exasperation. “I said  _ wine _ .”

“Lava Burst was more fun,” he grinned. “And I gave some to Cullen. He’s probably not happy about that.”

She was silent. 

Maxwell joined her on the dock, standing next to her as she looked out into the fog. “I was hoping you’d get back before I left,” he said conversationally. 

She looked up, and it was then he saw the marks on her face. He turned her by the shoulder. “Who hit you?” he frowned. 

“Maxie, I’m fine,” she smiled up at him. “I hit myself in the face.” She couldn’t help but chuckle at his puzzled expression. “I was up on the mountain. I saw things. In the fog. I hit myself to snap out of it.”

He pursed his lips. “Well,” he tilted his head. “That’s one way to deal with it. I guess that would work if you really couldn’t--”

With snow flurrying around her ankles, she turned and threw her arms around him, making him stumble back. “Evie what--?” he exclaimed. 

She pressed her face against his chest. “I saw you,” she whimpered, her voice shaking. “I saw you at the rift. I felt-- everything. You were terrified.”

“You what?” he breathed. His jaw tensed, trying to still the shiver that ran through him at the memory of those many eyes, that raised fist. He pushed her off him. “It’s-- nothing. Just nothing. You don’t have to coddle me for that.”

“I’m not coddling!”

“Then what is it? I was just-- I never saw such a thing, I was shocked, alright?”

She shook her head. “Maxie, I’m not trying to coddle you. You were scared. I’m scared. You’re trying to do what’s right despite it while I’m acting like a… a spoiled child.”

He stared at her. She looked up at him, her eyes liquid blue. “And I’m… sorry, Maxie. I was an idiot. I hid from you. I should have-- been there for you.”

He crossed his arms, looking away from her, his expression sullen. “Yeah, well, you should apologise!” He saw her shrink as she stood, her eyes lowered. He sighed heavily. “You should have told me in the first place not to mix the tincture into anything other than wine! It’s supposed to take away headaches, not give me more!”

He yelped as she poked him in his side, and danced out of her reach. “I am being serious, you lug!” she snapped, her wet cheeks mottled. 

“Yeah? So am I! I know you’re an idiot, that isn’t news to me. But you’re also not stupid,” he stuck his chin out pugnaciously. “So I’m not getting why you’re apologising. Just, you know, make up for it by polishing my boots, making my bed. You used to make these really good strawberry tarts. Just a hint.” 

She glowered at him. “I’m not joking, by the way,” he pointed out, waggling his finger at her. 

“I know that!” she barked. “That’s why I’m angry!” 

She folded her arms, a scowl on her face but her eyes were gentle. “Do you need anything else? Besides strawberry tarts and polished boots?”

“Yeah, don’t tell anyone I nearly shat myself on the mountain, maybe?” he said thoughtfully.

“Obviously!” she rolled her eyes. 

“See? I said you weren’t stupid,” he smiled faintly. “I’m going to meet the mages in Redcliffe. I’ll search for Ehren. Expect a bird from me. I’d bring you along but Leliana needs you to scope out something else.” She stared at him, and she bit her quivering lip. “Now I’d better get back to the others,” he said warmly and started to walk off. Until Evelyn grabbed his arm and turned him in the right direction to head back into Haven. 

 

+++++++

 

He grunted a lot, Evelyn noticed. When he saw something he didn’t like, or reports handed to him that troubled him, Cullen would grunt when he read it. He would run his eyes over it, grunt, and rub the back of his neck if it really troubled him. Stiff neck, Evelyn noted, watching him from her lookout point over the stockade wall of Haven. Her bruises were beginning to fade from the mountaintop journey, but the dreams still came, where she wandered the fog, hearing the screams… screams of Ehren, the girl from the Templar Camp in the Hinterlands, Maxwell’s gut-wrenching fear. Screams that tugged at her from all directions as she tried to run, only to jerk awake. It was affecting her sleep, and dark circles ringed her eyes now, though she wasn’t the only one who showed the same symptoms. 

She leaned her head on her hand as she watched Cullen yell out a soldier at the drills. He had dark rings under his eyes too. Stiff neck, constant frown, squinting. Headaches. From what, she wondered. Cullen was the sort who was a chronic worrier, it seemed. And she knew his position was a difficult one to helm. But he was efficient. As a soldier, she was never left wanting for anything, even though she was up in the armpit of the Frostbacks, in the middle of a disaster zone. 

“You’re not blind to what’s in front of you,” Bull had said. She wasn’t blind, unless she wanted to be. Seeing him, she saw Templars, Templars who hurt Ehren. He was one of them, wasn’t he? From the same Circle before he moved to Kirkwall after the Blight, or so Lysette had said. And yet, she smiled when she talked to him. 

A coil of disgust twisted up inside her instinctively at that admission. He was nice, but she also blamed him. Blame, that was it. He was easy to blame. She didn’t know the actual Templars who branded Ehren. And she didn’t know the Templars she killed on the road. They were all just Templars. But his name was on the thesis, he was at Kirkwall when it all began, and now here he was. 

After all he’s done and perpetuated, him and his ilk, Cullen was easy to blame. 

And yet, after the gauntlet of the mountain, after the words from the Iron Bull in the fog shrouded broken altar, she had to admit... he was also harder to hate. Because he worked like a dog, hardly rested, cared for his troops, treated everyone honorably. He’d also shown her compassion and patience she knew her behaviour did not entitle her to. 

He crossed his arms and grunted again, apparently in displeasure at the way the recruit was working his shield. From behind, Cullen’s stupid fur coat made him look like a bear. She wondered if that’s what the fur was. Suddenly, her idle mind pondered on what it must feel like to run one’s hands through it.

Andraste, listen to her! She sighed, her fingers tapping a frustrated staccato on the wood of the stockade. Harder to hate him. What could she say to him that he hadn’t said to himself? Probably, “Your fur coat looks stupid, let me touch it.” But she had been acting the fool, inciting tensions, not caring about the burnt down mansion, dragging herself and Lysette to the very edge of hostile territory. All this did not help Maxwell or his cause, but all she had wanted to do was drag the resources of the Inquisition to find Ehren. 

She saw him rubbing the back of his neck, and could hear his sigh from even here. 

Perhaps there was something she could do. But she would need wine. 

  
  


++++++

  
  


There was nowhere to escape the winds in Haven. It crept everywhere, under the shut doors, through cracks in the roof, through the knots of wood on shuttered windows. Everywhere, its icy fingers touched, tugging at the flames of the braziers, caressing the back of the neck. Evelyn stood in the Chantry, listening to the crackle of coals, shadows gently swaying as the winds in the rafters rocked the hanging braziers. She had been waiting a while, tucked away in a nook between a sooty old statue and the wall. Maferath, maybe. It was hard to tell. Faithful had put candles on and around the figure, to the point where soot and wax had misshapened it beyond recognition. It looked like a simulacrum of a man made by a child. 

She shifted the bottles in her arms and reached out to wipe the soot from its face with her thumb. Unfortunately, she merely smeared it away to reveal lumpy wax underneath. Whoever stood here was no more. People had prayed. Then they had forgotten about him. Evelyn realized that this did not surprise her. Such was the way of people, she had learned that from Chaudron, from Guiscard. Would they make statues of Maxwell like this in the future too? Would he wind up shrouded by the wax of a thousand prayer candles? Probably best, the more she thought of it. Maxwell’s statue would probably be of him with his arse hanging out of his trousers. She smiled fondly. Yes. Arse out. That was his style. The git. 

She sighed as an errant breeze tugged at her drawn hood. She had no idea how long she’d been waiting. She had lost track of time. Apparently, so had Cullen. Sister Leliana and Lady Josephine had long since retreated to their beds. Cullen was still inside. For ages. It was well past midnight now. She stepped out of the nook and walked to the War Room door. She glanced at the completely empty Chantry, then she sidled over to the door on silent feet. The sight of the lock made her sniff in disdain. She could have picked it with a coat hanger. In her sleep. 

But no, picking the locks was exactly the sort of questionable rebellious thing she decided she would not do. But listening at the door was alright. She cocked an ear close to the wood, and heard a snore. Evelyn stared at the knotted wood of the door, an eyebrow raised. She had been waiting ages only to find he had fallen asleep? She looked down at the two bottles in her arms. Bastard must be exhausted, she thought. And he’s the first one to shout the troops out of bed. She stepped back and the bottles clinked loudly in her arms. The snoring inside abruptly stopped. Evelyn put on as serious a face as she could. She’d chuckle about this later. Then, her fingers rapped on the worn wood of the door. “Commander?” she called, her voice echoing in the empty chantry. 

There was the heavy dragging of a chair from within, and boots sounded wearily on the stone floor. There was a pause and the door swung open. A draught swept by them the minute the door opened to the War Room, making the parchment within flutter. Evelyn blinked up at Cullen, and bit her lip. His hair was askew, and the fur of his coat was parted awkwardly where he’d leaned on it. He was pinching the bridge of his nose, and there was a smear of ink on his cheek, with the word ‘redoubt’ visible on his stubble. She desperately tried not to laugh. 

“What time is it?” he grunted, his voice groggy. 

“It’s well past midnight.”

“What?” he blinked. “Can’t be.”

“Time for you to get to bed, perhaps?” she said. 

“I was just-- reading.” 

She glanced into the room, the candles burned down far too low for reading. Then she looked up at him again. “Commander,” she said hesitantly, pointing as politely as she could. “Um. Your, um. Your cheek. There’s ink. From the reading.”

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen grumbled and wiped his cheek with his gloved hand. She watched him, a ghost of a smile on the ends of her lips. “Is it gone?” he asked. 

“No,” she said. “You missed a spot. There under your cheekbone.” He tried to get it, but missed again. She sighed in exasperation and reached up herself, wiping the smudge from his cheek, which grew hotter at her touch. The slow realization of what she was doing crept up on her along with the armies of her blush, her thumb slowing on his face. They caught each other’s gaze, his amber full of surprise and puzzlement. Evelyn pulled her hand away from him as if she had stuck her hand in the flame. And her stomach sank when she saw she’d left a streak of soot where her thumb had touched him. 

“Is it gone?” he asked. 

Her eyes were a little wild. She didn’t want to touch him again. “Sort of,” she said. “There’s no ink. But maybe a wash later wouldn’t hurt.”

Cullen sighed. “I should get to bed,” he grunted, shutting the War Room door behind him, and the draught ceased. He rubbed the back of his neck, blissfully unaware of the soot on his cheek. “Did you-- need something? Or did you just come to get me to bed?” He paused, and his cheeks were set aflame. “When I say ‘get me to bed’, I mean--” 

“Yeah!” Evelyn burst. “I know. I mean, I know what you mean! Get you to bed. Haha!” Her laugh was brittle as it bounced off the Chantry walls. 

“Haha,” Cullen said. 

And silence bloomed between them as they both stood there, lost in the red haze of their own blushes. Evelyn shook herself out of it. Maker, what was the matter with her. “I have this for you,” she said, holding out the wine and the smaller glass bottle. “I’m sorry about the Lava Burst. Maxie mixed the tincture with the wrong drink. It’s supposed to be drunk with wine.”

He took the bottles uncertainly. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean.”

“This tincture,” she pointed. “It’s good for headaches. It doesn’t dull the senses either, like the more concentrated elfroot essence does, though it’s just as effective. But you have to drink it with wine, not Lava Burst.”

“Headaches?”

“Maxwell told me you might need some,” she lied. 

“Did you get this from Adan?”

“He is the apothecary.” Not a lie. He was an apothecary. And Adan was in the room when she made it. She didn’t want to seem too eager. She lowered her eyes. “I thought you might need it. Maker knows I’ve caused one or two headaches.”

A slow smile crept across his lips as he looked down at the two bottles. “Just with wine,” he nodded. 

“Two spoonfuls in wine. Don’t mix it with other spices. You can drink it warmed. If you feel a tang on your tongue, it’s fine, if a little annoying. It will go away after a while.”

“How do you know all this?” 

She gestured to the vials at her belt. “I’ve had a broad education,” she smiled. Warmth from inside, swelling with the way he looked at her. Her breath hissed through her teeth. “I should, um, let you get back to sleep.”

“I wasn’t--”

“I know,” she said. "I meant reading."

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story is plodding along. But we're getting somewhere. Hopefully Evie's character development is going at an acceptable pace. If you have any feedback on how you think she's progressing, I'd love to hear it.


	13. Trust Me

Leliana knew her agents. Not many would gravitate to the bows like Scout Harding, not many could fade into the shadows like the Black Hart. Not many could sing songs like Zither, and not many, Evie noted, could throw daggers like she could.

As such, her agents were given time to train on their own. Which was a blessing. Evie was not doing well under Cullen’s drills, try though she might. She found the shield ungainly and never could hold a decent wall without being pushed on her ass. So now, she was practicing throwing daggers. An oddly meditative training. Helped greatly by the fact that she wasn’t obliged to listen to Cullen yell people out.

This was a blessing. She was trying to avoid Cullen, who was looking at her oddly since the Chantry. He probably thought her strange, or something. But he made her think uncomfortable thoughts, and there were too many uncomfortable thoughts. She just wanted to ignore them. All of them. Think nothing of Templars, think nothing of how she was made to idle in Haven, think nothing of how close Redcliffe was… she could traipse over in a night, poke around the village, and be back and Bob’s your uncle. But after the mountain, she knew that was the one thing she did not want to do. Maxie was important too. She couldn’t jeapordise him now that he was there.

The image of the smudge of soot on Cullen’s face, and wondered of his reaction when he saw the streak - if he even saw the streak. His stubble felt nice, though. The men of Orlais were generally well-shaven. She frowned slightly and pushed the thought from her mind. The way her brain went on about him sometimes… She was like a village girl. Madame Chaudron would be aghast at her lack of mental fortitude!

Cullen was easy to blame while also being hard to hate, which put him in a puzzling gray area her mind felt uncomfortable with. After Guicard betrayed her, she had languished in a dark place. Anger made her feel better, it always had. It buoyed her up on red hot wings, and she directed it like a gimlet. It helped her survive Chaudron’s training, Ehren’s rite, Guiscard’s betrayal, and perhaps even the mountain with the Iron Bull. But she had never had the reason for her anger kicked out from under her before. It was a disconcerting feeling, and weighed on her thoughts.

Her arm arced through the air, the dagger embedding itself in the straw man’s face. A thin steel gray line stretched from her wrist to the pommel of the throwing dagger. Evelyn tugged back the garotte, the dagger hurtling backwards toward her. She caught it and threw it again, and the tip sank into the same spot as before. She was not the only agent training with the straw men. There were many agents in Haven, pulled back from their posts. She wondered what Leliana was waiting for. As she pulled the dagger back, she sang, hoping to get her mind off the uncomfortable question of Cullen.

 _You know_ _Andraste's_ _old mabari_ _._

_He don't show up in the Chant_

_And if you ask those holy sisters,_

_Well, they'll say Andraste can't_

_Have had some big old smelly wardog._

_But all Ferelden_ _knows it right:_

_Our sweet Lady needed someone_

_Who would warm her feet at night._

 

She felt eyes on her. Over her shoulder, from behind. She threw her dagger again, not missing a beat of the song,

 

_And there's Andraste's mabari_

_By the Holy Prophet's side._

_In the fight against Tevinter,_

_That dog would never hide._

_They say the Maker_ _sent him special,_

_Always loyal, without pride,_

_So he could be the sworn companion_

_Of the Maker's Holy Bride._

 

From the corner of her eye, she spied a head watching her from behind some piled boxes. She tugged the dagger back, caught it, and threw it.

Then her song ceased. There was a puzzled silence. A head poked out from behind the crates. He was young, his soot-smudged brow furrowing under a mop of messy, sandy blond hair. The boy seemed to blink. The little girl was gone. He crept out around the crate, seeing only the dagger in the straw man’s head, a line of wire dangling from it, swaying in the breeze.

“Hi!”

His yelp as he spun around was like a startled kitten. He stumbled in the snow at the sight of Evelyn behind him, standing on silent feet. He scrambled to his feet and put his and on a hilt at his waist, his cheeks clearly flushed. He stood there then, posing. The boy was posing with his hand on his dagger. If Evelyn noticed, it did nothing to change her bright amiable smile.

“Hey now,” she said, holding up both hands. “I’m unarmed. You wouldn’t stab an unarmed lady, would you?”

The boy seemed to grudgingly take his hand off his dagger. “You’re lucky,” he said, trying to keep his voice from squeaking. “I could have killed you.”

Evelyn lowered her hands. “Maker be praised,” she said coolly. “Aren’t you a little short for a soldier?”

“Aren’t you a little short for an agent?” he shot back.

“I’m pocket sized for the Inquisition’s convenience,” she grinned. Then she held her hand out. He glared at it, then back at her. “Let me see.” She curled her fingers.

He glanced at his dagger. “The last person who asked me for it took it away,” he said, a hint of warning in his voice.

“Oh, don’t be daft,” she laughed. “I have seventeen of my own. I just want to see.”

He drew it jerkily from its sheath and passed it to Evelyn, hilt first. Evelyn took it, the dagger glinting as she tossed it lightly to catch it by its tip. It was a fine dagger, with a wire bound hilt and a simple round pommel. A double edged blade made it highly useful as a field dagger. She sighted down the blade from the tip to the pommel.

The boy watched her handle it, his eyes wide at the way the dagger seemed to dance in her fingers as she twirled it and passed it back to him.. “Nice,” she said simply. “Harrit’s?”

“Yeah,” the boy breathed thoughtfully. “I borrowed it.”

“Does he know you borrowed it?” she asked, walking past him to the straw man to retrieve her throwing knife.

The boy had the decency to look embarrassed. “Not yet,” he muttered, not meeting her eye as she walked to the target.

“I hope you pay him for it,” she said then, pulling her dagger out of the straw man.

“You’re not going to tell me it’s wrong to steal?”

“I’m not a Chantry mother,” she said simply. “But you’re obviously attached to it, and not willing to admit you did wrong. Until you do that, pay him for the dagger.” He fell silent, looking down at the blade.

She watched him as she headed back to the end of the range, standing before the straw man. She remembered what it felt like to hold her first blade. It felt like a long time ago. She started to tie the throwing knife to her garotte wire. “So,” she said idly. “What’s your name?”

“Willem Rainesfere.”

“Evie Wren.”

“I know,” he said.

Her blade sailed through the air, hitting its mark. She glanced at him. “How do you know?”

“I was in the caravan from Redcliffe,” Willem replied. “The one you and the knight joined. When you were injured.”

She blinked, and tugged the dagger back hard, catching it easily. “I see,” she murmured.

“Anyway, Maisey and I came up here with the Mother. Maisey wants to be a healer.”

“Your sister?” The knife flew again.

“Yeah. I thought I’d come up here and be a soldier.” He puffed his chest out.

“Bit early to be carrying a shield and stabbing things, no?” she asked.

“Never too early.” There was a fire in his voice that made her turn. “I can fight.” He shifted his feet. “But no one wants to let me in. They have me hauling boxes and polishing armor and sending poultices.”

“Hm. Squire duties. It makes sense.”

He peered at her, his hands behind his back. When he spoke, there was a hunger in his voice. “Maybe if I could fight? Maybe they would let me in?”

“I think the point of the Commander’s training regiment and his incessant drills is so you learn to stab people _after_ they let you in.”

“That dagger thing you do. Can you teach me?”

“Of course I can. Whether I’m willing to or not is another question.” Her arm swept out across her chest, sending the dagger deep into the straw man’s gut. “Why fight for the Inquisition, anyway?”

His cheeks coloured. “That’s-- not important,” he muttered. He glanced aside. “I just want to help.”

 _Liar_ , Evelyn noted. But he was young enough to carry a sword. Many Templars started their training at his age. She glanced at Cullen, leaning over a makeshift table outside his tent, fur tugged by the breeze that swirled the snow around Haven. She wondered when he began. Something to ask him. He’s young for a Commander, after all. Hair not touched by silver at all. Under normal circumstances, only nobles rose that quickly. But if he were a noble, then she was a monkey’s uncle. She was aware that someone was talking to her.  

“What?” she barked.

“I said,” Willem grated. “Can you teach me?”

“Sure,” she shrugged. His eyes lit up. “I’d be happy to show a fellow soldier a trick or two, but seeing as you’re not...” Snow flurried around the feet of a chantry sister, who ran from Haven’s gates towards them. Evelyn jerked her head at the woman before Willem could say anything. “I think you’re needed though,” she noted mildly.

“Willem!” the Sister called out. Willem turned, his face a mask of annoyance. “Willem! You’re not supposed to be here!”

“I do where I want to go, woman!” Willem retorted, then whined pitifully as the Sister pulled his ear hard. He gripped her wrist, wincing in pain. “Argh, stop! Stop!”

“I’m sorry about my brother, ser,” she said to Evelyn. Evelyn was not surprised to see the girl standing taller than her. “He wasn’t supposed to bother the troops, just send poultices to the men.”

“It’s no trouble, miss…?”

“Maisey,” she bowed. “I’ll be along then.” The sister turned, leading Willem away by the ear. Evelyn beamed at the boy, waving as he was brought away. He glared at her pugnaciously, then turned to follow his sister. It was then that the fluttering of feathers sounded overhead. Evelyn looked up just as the raven cawed. Black with a single white feather. Around its foot, a message tube glinted. She narrowed her eyes and turned to the gate.

  
+++++

  
He came in the night, a man wrapped in fine furs and silks too white for the likes of travelling. The hem of his cloak was browned, and his fur lined hood was hoaring with his breath. His staff tapped in the snow as he walked towards Haven, white swirls dancing at his feet, crunching under fine black leather boots. His white hood was drawn, embellished with a rising serpent in green.  When he came to the gate, as expected, the guard barred his path. The man looked up, his mustache, once waxed into a fine curled points, was now frosted. “Greetings, good man, fine evening for a spot of light guarding, isn’t it?” said the man.

The guard, a local Fereldan boy, looked the man up and down. “And who might you be?”

“Ah. Pardon my manners. My name is Dorian Pavus,” he replied. “And I have some rather urgent business with your Herald.” The guard glared at him in silence. “You know him of course? Tall, handsome, right hand glowing with the light of Andraste herself, or so the story goes.”

“What’s that snake on your clothes?”

“That is a rather neat bit of embroidery from some of the finest seamstresses in Minrathous. I could refer you if you’d like. But my most pressing need is to speak with your Herald, so if you could run along and fetch him…”

“He’s not here,” replied the other guard. “Minrathous is Tevinter. You a Magister?”

“Alright,” Dorian sighed. “Here it begins. Yes, I am from Tevinter. However, I am not a member of the Magisterium and thus, I’m not a Magister. I can assure you that I am not here to enslave, cast blood magic or whatever else the stories you tell to frighten children at night might say we do.” He drew a breath and continued slowly. “I am. Just here. To speak. To the Herald.”

The guards met each other’s glance and one nodded to the other. A side door in the main gate was opened, and one of the guards stepped through it. As Dorian moved to follow, the other barred his way, standing in his path. Dorian looked up at him. “Is this necessary? I’m hardly going to turn into a dragon and spirit away your Herald, you know,” Dorian said.

“Not today at least,” the guard droned. “Probably because he isn’t here.’

“What?”

A small person walked out before the larger Fereldan guard who returned to his post. She was not donned not in the armor of the Inquisition, but in the sturdier silks of the Orlesian bards. She wore her mask, a blue wren, and she bowed deeply to him.

“I had no idea there were bards here,” said Dorian, looking her over as she straightened up. “The Inquisition has higher status than I thought. Are you here to spy on me? Beguile me with your whimsical elfen beauty? I must warn you, it won’t work.”

Evelyn sized him up. “It might not,” she said, and reached up to undo the ribbon that held her mask on. The feathered mask fell away from her face, the winter breeze catching her hair.  “My name is Evelyn Wren. And alas, there is no beguiling planned for this evening, my lord. Merely a hot bath and a warm meal.” She gestured to the open door. “We have accommodations ready. I am to see to your every need.”

“This is quite the surprise,” Dorian said, following her through the door. “Do all guests get this personal service, or is it just me?” He paused, looking around at the village. “Well, this is… quaint.”

“It’s a run-down ramshackle in the armpit of the Frostbacks, with little trade beyond servicing pilgrims,” Evelyn said promptly. “The sort with the midden three feet from the tavern door, though they have moved it these days.”

“You’re certainly one for charming introductions aren’t you?”

“I was going for ‘accurate’, but ‘charming’ will have to do.”

“I suppose feathered beds are out of the question?”

“We could tie some geese together for you to lay on,” she smiled. “Otherwise, you’ll have to do make do with horse hair, my lord.”

He sighed.

She led him past the tavern, which was noisy now with raucous laughter and soldiers singing, far into their drink.

“Quite spirited, aren’t they?” Dorian noted.

She smiled up at him, and said nothing. The noise meant Cullen was probably not in the tavern.

Dorian’s hut was beside Adan’s, a place she was often to be found, making her potions. She opened the door of the hut. Within, a simple palette with a horsehair mattress and a table and stool. The hearth illuminated the room, burning merrily. Upon the table, a hot meal awaited. “It’s lamb stew with dumplings. Very warming,” she said.

Dorian entered and Evelyn shut the door behind him. “One cannot be fussy in the face of adversity, I suppose,” he said. “I hear the Herald is not in Haven.”

“That is correct,” Evelyn said calmly. “He is still in the Hinterlands. Sister Leliana bids you stay until he returns to hear your counsel.”

Dorian pulled off his gloves, moving to warm himself by the fire. He held his bare hands out to the dancing flames, flexing his stiff fingers. “And this Sister is…”

“A member of the Inquisition’s Privy Council.”

“This is quite the disappointment,” Dorian sighed. “I was hoping to see your Herald again. I was not expecting him to be traipsing around in the wilderness. We are running out of time.”

“He is no doubt eager to hear the news you bring,” Evelyn said, her eyes thoughtful as she looked at him. “Once his business in the Hinterlands is settled, he will return. Is there anything you require?” she asked.

“Not that I can think of at the moment,” Dorian said. “Thank you for your unexpected hospitality. I was not expecting such graciousness for a Tevinter.”

“You’re here to help the Herald,” she said evenly. “I’ll welcome the Black Divine himself if he’s willing to lend us aid.”

“Ah, the voice of pragmatism,” Dorian chuckled. “And here I was thinking I would have to convince people my head does not, in fact, turn in a complete circle.”

Evelyn laughed and bade the man goodnight, shutting the door behind her as she stepped out. A figure waited outside, standing by the palisade and shrouded in shadow. She straightened up, the light dancing on her burnished armour as she moved. “Well?” Lysette asked quietly.

“You don’t have to go Full Templar on him,” Evelyn assured. “Not just yet. He seems… decent. Sincere.”

“You are too trusting,” Lysette narrowed her eyes.

Evelyn snorted. “Who, me? It’s almost as if you’ve forgotten our wonderful romp to Redcliffe village.”

“You know what I mean,” Lysette sighed. “You’re a pain in the arse, I’ve not forgotten that. But he’s Tevinter. And you trust him a little too quickly.”

“Look, just because I said ‘Don’t kill him right this minute’ doesn’t mean I trust him,” Evelyn said evenly, adjusting her glove. “It just means I think his offer is genuine, and Maker knows we need all the help we can get. If the need arises, Sister Leliana will give the word, and he’ll have a dagger in his kidney before he can blink. And if he shoots lightning from his eyes, I would greatly welcome your assistance.” Lysette did not look pleased, but she nodded regardless. Evelyn looked up at her with an impish little smile. “Pain in the arse, eh? That was a kinder description of me than I expected.”

“I’m in a good mood.”

“You have good moods?”

“Keep it up and it will pass.”

 

+++++

 

Dorian, Evelyn found, was insufferably hard to dislike. He was a noble through and through, and noted problems with the food, the bedding, the draughts under the door. He was not used to the cold, and Evelyn had to keep his fire pretty well tended. All this in addition to waiting on him hand and foot. It was a task she wasn’t averse to. It was all part of the role she had to play - the kindly host, ever eager to help him settle in. She carried the tray of food from the tavern, covered under a silver cover to keep the wind and cold off it. The thumping of an axe sounded in the air like a steady heartbeat. By the door, Lysette was in her civvies before a wood pile, carefully splitting logs. Evelyn grinned at her.

Lysette’s brown eyes met hers as she brought the axe down pointedly, splitting the log set up on a stump. “What?”

“Nothing,” Evelyn shrugged. “You look pretty without your armor on, is all.”

Lysette rolled her eyes. “Hold your silvered tongue, little one. You still owe me five crowns from last night’s diamondback, and no amount of flattery will wipe that debt away.”

“You wrong me, ser!” Evelyn gasped. “My praises for the beauty of the rising sun do not diminish the eternal debt I do owe to the Maker, for it is he who set the--”

The axe sailed in a glinting arc in said sunlight and split another log. “Do you want me to charge interest?” Lysette asked.

Evelyn merely pouted.

“You were supposed to be back twenty minutes ago,” she drawled as she straightened up, wiping her forehead with the back of a gloved hand. “I do believe I spied you walking towards the Commander’s hut.”

“I had an errand,” Evelyn replied evenly, walking past Lysette.

Lysette leaned her hands on her axe handle, smirking insufferably. “Lots of errands to the Commander’s hut, hm?” she cooed.

Evelyn swallowed her surprise. Lysette was watching her from all the way here? Damn. “I was just dropping something off, Lysette. Being a good soldier and such. You know how it is.” That wasn’t a lie. Cullen was going through the tinctures quicker than she thought. But at least he wasn’t scowling so much.

“Ah-uh,” Lysette straightened up, gripping her axe handle once more. “You’re not the only one with an eye on the Commander.”

“Oh yes,” Evelyn rolled her eyes. “I just feel my garters fly right off every time he tells me to keep my damn shield up, if this man were my enemy, I’d be dead and so on.”

Lysette chuckled, setting another log in place. “I’ll bet it does,” she smirked, her voice oozing with innuendo in a way only a Chantry-woman could make it.

Evelyn glared at her, wondering of she would get court-martialed for killing Lysette. Probably.

“ _Vishanthe kaffas!_ ” A string of Tevene peppered the air. Evelyn’s shoulder pushed open the door, her hands ready to drop the tray, her mind distinctly aware of the daggers under her bodice--

“Of all the nerve!” Dorian sputtered, rising from a chair. “Really, the way Southern Chantry scholars write about us, you’d think we ate babies for breakfast!” A book sailed past her face, thumping on the door frame. He turned to the door. “Ah, there you are, I was wondering when lunch would be served,” he drawled, and paused, glancing over her shoulder. “Is something the matter with your friend?”

Evelyn could see Lysette guiltily lowering the axe from the corner of her eye, even as her own smile remained carefully fixed and friendly. “I was… just… splitting wood,” Lysette muttered, and coughed as she turned away, returning to her task.  

Evelyn shut the door with her foot. “You shouldn’t startle us like that, sir,” she said. “Our nerves are a touch frayed, as you can imagine.” She set the tray down on a low table.

“You’d think a scholar as well-travelled as Genitivi would have a bit more sense,” he sniffed, and sat down.

She smiled faintly at him. It was unusual to see a man so riled up by the books he read. And that mustache. She wondered what he used to style it. The way it curled, it seemed to defy gravity. Maybe it was magic. “The Fereldens think we Orlesians all smell of cheese,” she said, pouring his wine from a rope-bound bottle. “Well, we do, but one shouldn’t say it to our faces.”

“Hah! Well, so far, most of you have the decency to whisper behind your hands,” Dorian said, sitting back down by the table.

“Of course,” Evelyn beamed, lifting the silver cover off the tray to reveal a platter of hearty roasted vegetables, a thick slice of steak and warm fresh bread. “We’re not complete savages, my lord.”

Dorian laughed at that as he reached for his silverware. “Any news on that Herald of Andraste yet?”

“Alas, no. But it is a couple days of riding to the Hinterlands,” she said, stepping to the side, ready to serve. Truth be told, she was growing frustrated. Maxie was taking longer than she anticipated. And here she was on a security detail instead of at his side. She balked at that. He could take care of himself, surely. He had trained to wield a sword since he was a boy. She had to believe he was alright.

“Ah, so it is. Time is of the essence, however,” he sighed. “I hope he took my words to heart.”

Evelyn blinked. “You’ve met him, my lord?”

Dorian glanced at her. “Oh, yes. Tall, strapping, lovely blue eyes, inexplicable magical touch of destiny upon his left hand,” he said. “I hope whatever delayed him does not delay him any longer.” His foot tapped impatiently upon the rush-covered floor of the hut.  

“We all look forward to his return,” Evelyn said placatingly. He tore the bread in half and chewed. Then, to her surprise, he stood up. “I tire of being in this hut. Do you think your watch duties would allow me to walk the camp.”

“Of course,” she said, even though he was already reaching for his staff and cloak. She had daggers with her under her bardic silks. This time, she would not be taken by surprise, not like she had been in the mansion in Val Royeaux. No binding spell to drive knives into her very bones - not before she buried a dagger in his eye.

“You are trusting for a bard,” Dorian noted, taking his time to do up his multiple buckles.

She smiled faintly. “It is a failing to be sure,” she said, her mind drifting to Cullen and the innumerable headaches she had caused him because of her ’trusting’ nature. Still, the fact that Dorian came into enemy territory to offer assistance was telling. He was either a genuine man of goodwill, a fool or desperate. Evelyn was inclined to peg him as all three. “Besides," she went on, "if you wanted to sacrifice anyone to any dark rituals, you’d have done that before. You’ve been here a week and the only thing you’ve cursed are the Chantry’s library books.”

Dorian sighed with melancholy. “A failing of mine also, to be sure,” he said, grabbing the bread and heading to the door. Evelyn moved to follow him. As she emerged, Lysette looked up, and she could see the way the Templar’s muscles stiffen as she held the axe. Evelyn subtly waved her down behind Dorian’s back.

“Where would you like to walk today?” Evelyn asked, signaling Lysette to stay. Lysette narrowed her eyes at her, but nodded slightly.

“How about the tavern? I’ve yet to sample some of your delightfully quaint southern beers,” Dorian said. “Oh, wait, no, is that the midden by the door?”

Evelyn sighed wearily. “They moved it a few weeks ago, I guess they moved it back, for some reason.”

“Ah, then I shall give the beer a pass. I don’t think the smell of urine would add to the delicate aromas of your ales and lagers.”

Evelyn smiled faintly. “I don’t know. Have you tried Ferelden lagers? They might improve the flavour profile.”

“Oh, that was such an Orlesian comment to make,” Dorian cooed. “Let us see the troops then. Strapping men, or so I’ve been told.”

The image of wavy blond hair rose in her mind, the mark of soot upon a cheekbone, stubble under her fingers. “Quite,” she said, pushing the image from her head. “The soldiers of the Inquisition are well-trained. They should be doing their drills. Would my lord like a suitable vantage point to observe them?”

She led him to the platform that overlooked the palisades. Once atop, he leaned his arms between the pointed tops of the logs, looking out at the training fields that stretched out below them. Below them, the soldiers were busy in their drills, under the watchful eye of Cullen. The man leaned over a table, one eye on his troops, the other on papers spread out before him. They looked to be engineering diagrams. She squinted her eyes, seeing the shape of the drawings. Trebuchets. An odd choice of engine when the walls were made of wood. Haven was not the most defensible place.

The tents were dusted with snow, and shards of green light from the breach splintered on the crystaline surface of the frozen lake. She saw his eyes drawn up to the Breach as he took a bite of his bread thoughtfully. “It looks positively ghastly, does it not?” he mused. “Have your mages not yet discovered its origin?”

“Alas no, my lord,” Evelyn said. “Truth be told, I was hoping you might enlighten us a little on that.”

“And what makes you think I could provide any significant insight that your Inquisition has not yet gleaned from the Breach?”

“Your education. Mage studies in Tevinter are much more diverse--”

“If by diverse, you mean bloody and brutal. According to your Chantry’s lore, we cut up babies to fuel spells during our blood orgies every weekend.”

“Not _every_ weekend,” she smiled. “It is possible to grow weary of orgies if one attends too frequently.” Below, she could see a young familiar face carried a flagon from the tavern and a sheaf of parchments to Cullen’s desk. She was pleased to not see a dagger at Willem's hip.

“That I can personally attest to,” Dorian chuckled, resting his hands on the palisade tips. She watched as Cullen dripped something from a small stoppered bottle he withdrew from a hip pack generously into the flagon. She frowned slightly. The man was getting the dosage wrong… She’d have to talk to him about that. “Unfortunately," Dorian went on, "I can enlighten you little there. We have never seen something like this before, and my countrymen in Redcliffe are not interested in Breaches, I fear.”

She glanced up at him. “Oh? What are they interested in?” she asked, keeping her voice steady.

“Your Southern Mages, I gather,” he replied.

“I see.” She bit the inside of her cheek, her hands barely tightening upon the palisades. Ehren was probably there. After all weeks, she couldn’t get into the place, but for some reason the Vints could. And yet, if the Southern Mages had taken up with Tevinter, then what hope did she have of finding him? But Maxie was working on it, right? She had to believe Maxie was, in his own way, searching too. “Would my Lord be so kind as to enlighten me,” she said then. “How do the Tevinters deal with, shall we say, rogue mages? Mages who break the law, such as they are.”

“You mean mages foolish enough to get caught using blood magic?” Dorian asked. “Similarly to the way you Southeners deal with them. The Archon can order executions, the rites of Tranquility. Our Chantries were once one and the same, after all. The only difference is that unlike the South, the mages back home are punished by the Magisterium - other mages - and not by mundanes. It is a horrific punishment, and one not handed down lightly. Death is better than tranquility.”

Her hand reached to touch her bodice, where Ehren's music box rested against her skin. “What happens to those who are punished with the rite?”

“They are put to work, in most cases. Often, they are viewed as highly-trained slaves. Their magical training makes them extremely useful to have around.”

She smiled slightly, a coil of disgust winding around her spine. “It’s nice to see that our diverse countries have something in common,” she said.

“Shared barbarism is such a pleasant thing to bond over,” Dorian said. “To fear magic so much that the mundanes destroy the minds of mages. We do not deliver such judgement often. Not as often as you lot do.”

“No,” she said softly. “I suppose not.”

There was the thunder of hooves then coming up the pass. Both of them turned, seeing the snow flurry behind the horses that rode up to Haven. Shouts rang out ahead of the riders from the soldiers on watch. The Herald, they called on.

Evelyn saw Maxwell approaching with Cassandra, Bull and Varric. Their horses were weary, and Maxwell had a vivid white scar across his neck and chin. His armour was dented from blows, and a strange gouge on the side of his shield caught her eye. She frowned. Something big had cut into the metal. Like... a claw. And the others were also worse for wear. Varric was limping a little, and Bull's horn was scored with a white streak.

“Well, it’s about time,” Dorian said urgently. He turned to leave the palisade when Evelyn’s hand caught his elbow.

“A moment, my lord,” she said coolly. Maxwell dismounted as Cullen walked up to him. Terse words passed between them. Cassandra stepped closer, joining the conversation. Maxwell nodded, and the three of them turned towards the gates as the grooms hurried forward to take their horses.

“I must speak with him,” Dorian pressed, and pulled himself free. Maxwell, Cullen and Cassandra were already in the gates, striding through the snow towards the Chantry. They did not even see her and Dorian on the palisades.

“I suggest patience, my Lord,” Evelyn pressed. “Let him confer with the Privy Council first.”

“Which begs the question what they’re talking about, yes?” Dorian said. “There is a magister in Redcliffe, and I am certain your Herald is in danger. Whatever happens, I guarantee that he is going to assault that castle to get it back - and the mages, as well. The keep is being held by a magister, besides. What sort of magical wards do you think are there? I can dispel them! I know how they were created. The last thing I want is your Herald to die, or worse, get captured. You must let me speak with him!”

"I'm not denying you the opportunity, my lord," she said evenly. "I'm merely asking you to consider the timing of your grand entrance. Give them a moment to regroup and assess the situation. When their need of you is greatest, then you step in. Believe me, there are some in there who may not take too kindly to a Tevinter barging in.”

“And how will you know when that time is from out here?”

She gave him a withering look. “You don’t think I intend to let you while away out here, do you? Trust me.”

Dorian’s eyes narrowed. “Oho, now you’re advising me,” he said. “And here I thought your job was just to keep watch on me, should I burst into flames or shoot fire from my fingertips.”

“The fact that you have not done so yet makes me inclined to trust you. But more so the fact that you openly declare yourself a member of a hostile force, yet enter the encampment with a desire to help. This leads me to believe you are genuine in your willingness to assist, or, you are a fool,” Evelyn said. “Of course, if you should bring the Herald to harm in any way, I will stab you where you die slow.” She looked across Haven. "They are in the Chantry. Now we proceed."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back. Updates a year late. Time to finish this story. Uh, if anyone's still there, that is.


End file.
